M 


pii 


i 


mi 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


I* 


r'#  ,  •  .  •••    -  ■•: 

■}^::  .->,■■ 
If.--- ■■,.._■.,    •'■•■. 


.    '       I   1.4 


^. 


IV  S 


»i.'-->^. 


WHAT    ANSWER? 


ANNA    E.    DICKINSON. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS, 

1868. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

ANNA    E.    DICKINSON, 

the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


University  Press  :  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co., 
Cambridge, 


WHAT    ANSWER? 


CHAPTER    I. 

"  In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride." 

Drydeit. 

A  CROWDED  New  York  street,  —  Fifth  Avenue 
at  the  height  of  the  afternoon  ;  a  gallant  and 
brilliant  throng.  Looking  over  the  glittering  array, 
the  purple  and  fine  linen,  the  sweeping  robes,  the  ex- 
quisite equipages,  the  stately  houses ;  the  faces,  delicate 
and  refined,  proud,  self-satisfied,  that  gazed  out  from 
their  windows  on  the  street,  or  that  glanced  from  the 
street  to  the  windows,  or  at  one  another,  —  looking 
over  all  this,  being  a  part  of  it,  one  might  well  say, 
"  This  is  existence,  and  beside  it  there  is  none  other. 
Let  us  dress,  dine,  and  be  merry !  Life  is  good,  and 
love  is  sweet,  and  both  shall  endure !  Let  us  forget 
that  hunger  and  sin,  sorrow  and  self-sacrifice,  want, 
struggle,  and  pain,  have  place  in  the  world."  Yet,  even 
with  the  words,  "poverty,  frost-nipped  in  a  summer 
suit,"  here  and  there  hurried  by ;  and  once  and  again 
through  the  restless  tide  the  sorrowful  procession  of 
the  tomb  made  way. 

I  A 

602810 


2  JV/iaf  A?tszver? 

More  than  one  eye  was  lifted,  and  many  a  pleasant 
greeting  passed  between  these  selected  few  who  filled 
the  street  and  a  young  man  who  lounged  by  one  of 
the  overlooking  windows  ;  and  many  a  comment  was 
uttered  upon  him  when  the  greeting  was  made :  — 

"  A  most  eligible /^A-// /  " 

"  Handsome  as  a  god  !  " 

"  O,  immensely  rich,  I  assure  you  1 " 

"/j-;//  he  a  beauty!  " 

"  Pity  he  was  n't  born  poor  !  " 

"  Why  ?  " 

"O,  because  they  say  he  carried  off  all  the  honors 
at  college  and  law-school,  and  is  altogether  overstocked 
with  brains  for  a  man  who  has  no  need  to  use  them." 

"Will  he  practise?" 

"  Doubtful.     Why  should  he  ? 

"  Ambition,  power,  —  gratify  one,  gain  the  other," 

"  Nonsense !  He  '11  probably  go  abroad  and  travel 
for  a  while,  come  back,  marry,  and  enjoy  life." 

"  He  does  that  now,  I  fancy." 

"  Looks  so." 

And  indeed  he  did.  There  was  not  only  vigor  and 
manly  beauty,  splendid  in  its  present,  but  the  "  possi- 
bility of  more  to  be  in  the  full  process  of  his  ripening 
days," — a  form  alert  and  elegant,  which  had  not  yet 
all  of  a  man's  muscle  and  strength  ;  a  face  delicate, 
yet  strong,  — refined,  yet  full  of  latent  power  ;  a  mass 


iS 


rr//^/  Answer?  ^ 

of  rippling  hair  like  burnished  gold,  flung  back  on  the 
one  side,  sweeping  low  across  brow  and  cheek  on  the 
other;  eyes 

"  Of  a  deep,  soft,  lucent  hue,  — 
Eyes  too  expressive  to  be  blue, 
Too  lovely  to  be  gray." 

People  involuntarily  thought  of  the  pink  and  flower 
of  chival^.  as  they  looked  at  him,  or  imagined,  in 
some  indistinct  fashion,  that  they  heard  the  old  son^s 
of  Percy  and  Douglas,  or  the  later  lays  of  the  cav^ 
I.ers,  as  they  heard  his  voice,  _  a  voice  that  was  just 
now  humming  one  of  these  same  lays  :  — 

"  Then  mounte  !  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all. 
And  don  your  helmes  amaine  ; 
Death's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 
Us  to  the  field  againe." 

"Stuff!"  he  cried  impatiently,  looking  wistfully  at 
the  men's  faces  going  by,  -  "  stuff!  We  look  like  val- 
iants to  ride  a  tilt  at  the  world,  and  die  for  Honor  and 
Fame,  —  we  !  " 

"I  thank  God,  Willie,  you  are  not  called  upon  for 
any  such  sacrifice." 

"Ah,  little  mother,  well  you  may!"  he  answered, 
sniihng,  and  taking  her  hand, -"well  you  may,  for  I 
am  afraid  I  should  fall  dreadfully  short  when  the  time 
came;  and  then  how  ashamed  you  'd  be  of  your  bi» 
boy,  who  took  his  ease  at  home,  with  the  great  drums 


4  ll7/af  Afisii'er? 

beating  and  the  trumpets  blowing  outside.  And  yet 
—  I  should  like  to  be  tried  !  " 

"  See,  mother  !  "  he  broke  out  again,  —  "  see  what  a 
life  it  is,  getting  and  spending,  liv^ing  handsomely  and 
doing  the  proper  thing  towards  society,  and  all  that,  — 
rubbing  through  the  world  in  the  old  hereditary  way ; 
though  I  need  n't  growl  at  it,  for  I  enjoy  it  enough, 
and  find  it  a  pleasant  enough  way.  Heaven  knows. 
Lazy  idler !  enjoying  the  sunshine  with  the  rest 
Heigh-ho  !  " 

"  You  have  your  profession,  Willie.  There  's  work 
there,  and  opportunity  sufficient  to  help  others  and  do 
for  yourself" 

"  Ay,  and  I  '11  do  it !  But  there  is  so  much  that  is 
poor  and  mean,  and  base  and  tricky,  in  it  all,  —  so 
much  to  disgust  and  tire  one,  —  all  the  time,  day  after 
day,  for  years.  Now  if  it  were  only  a  huge  giant  that 
stands  in  your  way,  you  could  out  rapier  and  have  at 
him  at  once,  and  there  an  end,  —  laid  out  or  trium- 
phant.    That 's  worth  while  !  " 

"  O  youth,  eager  and  beautiful,"  thought  the  mother 
who  listened,  "  that  in  this  phase  is  so  alike  the  world 
over,  —  so  impatient  to  do,  so  ready  to  brave  encoun- 
ters, so  willing  to  dare  and  die  !  May  the  doing  be 
faithful,  and  the  encounters  be  patiently  as  well  as 
bravely  fought,  and  the  fancy  of  heroic  death  be  a 
reality  of  noble  and  earnest  life.  God  grant  it ! 
Amen." 


W/iat  Answer?  5 

"  Meanwhile,"  said  the  gay  voice,  —  "  meanwhile  it 's 
a  pleasant  world  ;  let  us  enjoy  it !  and  as  to  do  this 
is  within  the  compass  of  a  man's  wit,  therefore  will 
I  attempt  the  doing." 

While  he  was  talking  he  had  once  more  come  to 
the  window,  and,  looking  out,  fastened  his  eyes  un- 
consciously but  intently  upon  the  face  of  a  young  girl 
who  was  slowly  passing  by,  —  unconsciously,  yet  so 
intently  that,  as  if  suddenly  magnetized,  a  flicker  of 
feeling  went  over  it;  the  mouth,  set  with  a  steady 
sweetness,  quivered  a  little  ;  the  eyes  —  dark,  beauti- 
ful eyes  —  were  lifted  to  his  an  instant,  that  was  all. 
The  mother  beside  him  did  not  see  ;  but  she  heard 
a  long  breath,  almost  a  sigh,  break  from  him  as  he 
started,  then  flashed  out  of  the  room,  snatching  his 
hat  in  the  hall,  and  so  on  to  the  street,  and  away. 

Away  after  her,  through  block  after  block,  across 
the  crowded  avenue  to  Broadway.  "  Who  is  she  ? 
where  did  she  come  from  ?  /  never  saw  her  before. 
I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Russell  knows  her,  or  Clara,  or 
anybody  !  I  will  know  where  she  lives,  or  where  she 
is  going  at  least,  —  that  will  be  some  clew  !  There  ! 
she  is  stopping  that  stage.  I  '11  help  her  in  !  no,  I 
won't,  —  she  will  think  I  am  chasing  her.  Nonsense  ! 
do  you  suppose  she  saw  you  at  the  window  ?  Of 
course  !  No,  she  did  n't ;  don't  be  a  fool !  There  !  I'll 
get  into  the  next  stage.     Now  I  '11  keep  watch  of  that, 


6  IV/iai  Anszvcrf 

and  she  '11  not  know.  So  —  all  right !  Go  ahead, 
driver."  And  happy  with  some  new  happiness,  eager, 
bright,  the  handsome  young  fellow  sat  watching  that 
other  stage,  and  the  stylish  little  lace  bonnet  that  was 
all  he  could  see  of  his  magnet,  through  the  intermi- 
nable journey  down  Broadway. 

How  clear  the  air  seemed !  and  the  sun,  how 
splendidly  it  shone  !  and  what  a  glad  look  was  upon 
all  the  people's  faces  !  He  felt  like  breaking  out  into 
gay  little  snatches  of  song,  and  moved  his  foot  to  the 
waltz  measure  that  beat  time  in  his  brain  till  the  irate 
old  gentleman  opposite,  whom  nature  had  made  of  a 
sour  complexion  and  art  assisted  to  corns,  broke  out 
with  an  angry  exclamation.  That  drew  his  attention 
for  a  moment.  A  slackening  of  speed,  a  halt,  and 
the  stage  was  wedged  in  one  of  the  inextricable 
"jams"  on  Broadway.  Vain  the  search  for  her  stage 
then  ;  looking  over  the  backs  of  the  poor,  tired  horses, 
or  from  the  sidewalk,  — here,  there,  at  this  one  and 
that  one,  —  all  for  naught !  Stage  and  passenger, 
eyes,  little  lace  bonnet,  and  all,  had  vanished  away, 
as  William  Surrey  confessed,  and  confessed  with  re- 
luctance and  discontent. 

"  No  matter  !  "  he  said  presently,  —  "  no  matter !  I 
shall  see  her  again.  I  know  it !  I  feel  it !  It  is  writ- 
ten in  the  book  of  the  Fates  !  So  now  I  shall  content 
me  with  something  "  —  that  looks  like  her  he  did  not 


IV/iat  Answer  f  7 

say  definitely,  but  felt  it  none  the  less,  as,  going 
over  to  the  flower-basket  near  by,  he  picked  out  a  little 
nosegay  of  mignonette  and  geranium,  with  a  tea-rose- 
bud in  its  centre,  and  pinned  it  at  his  button-hole. 
"  Delicate  and  fine  ! "  he  thought,  —  "  delicate  and 
fine  ! "  and  with  the  repetition  he  looked  from  it  down 
the  long  street  after  the  interminable  line  of  stages ; 
and  somehow  the  faint,  sweet  perfume,  and  the  fair 
flower,  and  the  dainty  lace  bonnet,  were  mingled  in 
wild  and  charming  confusion  in  his  brain,  till  he  shook 
himself,  and  laughed  at  himself,  and  quoted  Shakespeare 
to  excuse  himself, —  "  A  mad  world,  my  masters  !"  — 
seeing  this  poor  old  earth  of  ours,  as  people  always  do, 
through  their  own  eyes. 

"  God  bless  ye  !  and  long  life  to  yer  honor !  and  may 
the  blessed  Virgin  give  ye  the  desire  of  yer  heart ! " 
called  the  Irishwoman  after  him,  as  he  put  back  the 
change  in  her  hand  and  went  gayly  up  the  street. 
"  Sure,  he  's  somebody's  darlint,  the  beauty !  the  saints 
preserve  him ! "  she  said,  as  she  looked  from  the  gold 
piece  in  her  palm  to  the  fair,  sunny  head,  watching  it 
till  it  was  lost  in  the  crowd  from  her  grateful  eyes. 

Evidently  this  young  man  was  a  favorite,  for,  as  he 
passed  along,  many  a  face,  w^orn  by  business  and  care, 
brightened  as  he  smiled  and  spoke;  many  a  counte- 
nance stamped  with  the  trade-mark,  preoccupied  and 
hard,  relaxed  in  a  kindly  recognition  as  he  bowed  and 


8  What  Afisiuer? 

went  by ;  and  more  than  one  found  time,  even  in  that 
busy  whirl,  to  glance  for  a  moment  after  him,  or  to  re- 
member him  with  a  pleasant  feeling,  at  least  till  the 
pavement  had  been  crossed  on  which  they  met,  —  a 
long  space  at  that  hour  of  the  day,  and  with  so  much 
more  important  matters  —  Bull  and  Bear,  rise  and  fall, 
stock  and  account  —  claiming  their  attention. 

Evidently  a  favorite,  for,  turning  off  into  one  of  the 
side  streets,  coming  into  his  father's  huge  foundry,  faces 
heated  and  dusty,  tired,  stained,  and  smoke-begrimed, 
glanced  up  from  their  work,  from  forge  and  fire  and 
engine,  with  an  expression  that  invited  a  look  or  word, 
—  and  look  and  word  were  both  ready. 

"The  boss  is  out,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  foremen, 
"  and  if  you  please,  and  have  got  the  time  to  spare,  I  'd 
like  to  have  a  word  with  you  before  he  comes  in." 

"  All  right,  Jim  !  say  your  say." 

"  Well,  sir,  you  '11  likely  think  I  'm  sticking  my  nose 
into  what  does  n't  concern  me.  'T  ain't  a  very  nice 
thing  I  've  got  to  say,  but  if  I  don't  say  it  I  don't  know 
who  in  thunder  will ;  and,  as  it 's  my  private  opinion 
that  somebody  ought  to,  I  '11  just  pitch  in." 

"  Very  good ;  pitch  in." 

"  Very  good  it  is  then.  Only  it  ain't.  Very  bad, 
more  like.  It 's  a  nasty  mess,  and  no  mistake  !  and 
there  's  the  cause  of  it ! "  pointing  his  brawny  hand 
towards  the  door,  upon  which  was  marked,  "Office. 


What  A7iswerf.  9 

Private,"  and  sniffing  as  though  he  smelt  something 
bad  in  the  air. 

"  You  don't  mean  my  father  !  "  flame  shooting  from 
the  clear  e3^es. 

"  Be  damned  if  I  do.  Beg  pardon.  Of  course  1 
don't.  I  mean  the  fellow  as  is  perched  up  on  a  high 
stool  in  that  there  office,  this  very  minute,  poking  into 
his  books." 

"Franklin?" 

"  You  've  hit  it.  Franklin,  —  Abe  Franklin,  —  that 's 
the  ticket." 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  him  ?  what  has  he  done  ? " 

"  Done  t  nothing  !  not  as  I  know  of,  anyway,  except 
what 's  right  and  proper.  'T  ain't  what  he  's  done  or 's 
like  to  do.     It 's  what  he  is." 

"  And  what  may  that  be  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  's  a  nigger  !  there  's  the  long  and  short  of 
it.  Nobody  here  'd  object  to  his  working  in  this  place, 
providing  he  was  a  runner,  or  an  errand-boy,  or  any- 
thing that  it 's  right  and  proper  for  a  nigger  to  be  \  but 
to  have  him  sitting  in  that  office,  writing  letters  for  the 
boss,  and  going  over  the  books,  and  superintending 
the  accounts  of  the  fellows,  so  that  he  knows  just  what 
they  get  on  Saturday  nights,  and  being  as  fine  as  a  fid- 
dle, is  what  the  boys  won't  stand;  and  they  swear 
they  '11  leave,  every  man  of  'em,  unless  he  has  his  walk- 
ing papers,  —  double-quick  too." 
I* 


10  IVhai  Answer? 

"  Very  well ;  let  them.  There  are  other  workmen, 
good  as  they,  in  this  city  of  New  York." 

"  Hold  on,  sir  !  let  me  say  my  say  first.  There  are 
seven  hundred  men  working  in  this  place  :  the  most  of 
'em  have  worked  here  a  long  while.  Good  work, 
good  pay.  There  ain't  a  man  of  'em  but  likes  Mr.  Sur- 
rey, and  would  be  sorry  to  lose  the  place ;  so,  if  they 
won't  bear  it,  there  ain't  any  that  will.  Wait  a  bit!  I 
ain't  through  yet." 

"Go  on," — quietly  enough  spoken,  but  the  mouth 
shook  under  its  silky  fringe,  and  a  fiery  spot  burned 
on  either  cheek. 

"All  right.  Well,  sir,  I  know  all  about  Franklin. 
He  's  a  bright  one,  smart  enough  to  stock  a  lot  of  us 
with  brains  and  have  some  to  spare ;  he  don't  inter- 
fere with  us,  and  does  his  work  well,  too,  I  reckon,  — 
though  that 's  neither  here  nor  there,  nor  none  of  our 
business  if  the  boss  is  satisfied  ;  and  he  looks  like  a 
gentleman,  and  acts  like  one,  there  's  no  denying  that ! 
and  as  for  his  skin,  —  well ! "  a  smile  breaking  over  his 
good-looking  face,  "  his  skin  's  quite  as  white  as  mine 
now,  anyway,"  smearing  his  red-flannel  arm  over  his 
grimy  phiz  ;  "  but  then,  sir,  it  won't  rub  off.  He  's  a 
nigger,  and  there  's  no  getting  round  it. 

"  All  right,  sir !  give  you  your  chance  directly. 
Don't  speak  yet,  —  ain't  through,  if  you  please.  Well, 
sir,  it 's  agen  nature,  —  you  may  talk  agen   it,   and 


J  J  Via  t  Answer?  II 

work  agen  it,  and  fight  agen  it  till  all 's  blue,  and 
what  good  '11  it  do  ?  You  can't  get  an  Irishman,  and, 
what 's  more,  a  free-born  American  citizen,  to  put  him- 
self on  a  level  with  a  nigger,  —  not  by  no  manner  of 
means.  No,  sir  ;  you  can  turn  out  the  whole  lot,  and 
get  another  after  it,  and  another  after  that,  and  so  on 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  and  you  can't  find  men 
among  'em  all  that  '11  stay  and  have  him  strutting 
through  'em,  up  to  his  stool  and  his  books,  grand  as 
a  peacock." 

"  Would  they  work  wU/i  him  ? " 

"  At  the  same  engines,  and  the  like,  do  you  mean  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Nary  time,  so  't  ain't  likely  they  '11  work  under 
him.  Now,  sir,  you  see  I  know  what  I  'm  saying,  and 
I  'm  saying  it  to  yo?^,  Mr.  Surrey,  and  not  to  your 
father,  because  he  won't  take  a  word  from  me  nor 
nobody  else,  —  and  here  's  just  the  case.  Now  I  ain't 
bullying,  you  understand,  and  I  say  it  because  some- 
body else  'd  say  it,  if  I  did  n't,  uglier  and  rougher. 
Abe  Franklin  '11  have  to  go  out  of  this  shop  in  precious 
short  order,  or  every  man  here  '11  bolt  next  Saturday 
night.  There  !  now  I  've  done,  sir,  and  you  can  fire 
away." 

But  as  he  showed  no  signs  of  "  firing  away,"  and 
stood  still,  pondering,  Jim  broke  out  again  :  — 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir.    If  I  've  said  anything  you  don't 


12  IV/iat  Answer? 

like,  sorr}^  for  it.  It 's  because  Mr.  Surrey  is  so  good 
an  employer,  and,  if  you  '11  let  me  say  so,  because  I 
like  you  so  well,"  glancing  over  him  admiringly,  —  "  for, 
you  see,  a  good  engineer  takes  to  a  clean-built  ma- 
chine wherever  he  sees  it,  —  it's  just  because  of 
this  I  thought  it  was  better  to  tell  you,  and  get 
you  to  tell  the  boss,  and  to  save  any  row ;  for 
I  'd  hate  mortally  to  have  it  in  this  shop  where 
I  've  worked,  man  and  boy,  so  many  years.  Will 
you  please  to  speak  to  him,  sir  ?  and  I  hope  you 
understand." 

"  Thank  you,  Jim.  Yes,  I  understand  ;  and  I  '11 
speak  to  him." 

Was  it  that  the  sun  was  going  down,  or  that  some 
clouds  were  in  the  sky,  or  had  the  air  of  the  shop 
oppressed  him  ?  Whatever  it  was,  as  he  came  out  he 
walked  with  a  slower  step  from  which  some  of  the 
spring  had  gone,  and  the  people's  faces  looked  not  so 
happy ;  and,  glancing  down  at  his  rosebud,  he  saw 
that  its  fair  petals  had  been  soiled  by  the  smoke  and 
grime  in  which  he  had  been  standing  ;  and,  while  he 
looked,  a  dead  march  came  solemnly  sounding  up  the 
street,  and  a  soldier's  funeral  went  by,  —  rare  enough, 
in  that  autumn  of  i860,  to  draw  a  curious  crowd  on 
either  side ;  rare  enough  to  make  him  pause  and  sur- 
vey it ;  and  as  the  line  turned  into  another  street,  and 
the  music  came  softened  to  his  ear,  he  once  more 


IV/ial  Ajiszver?  13 

hummed  the  words  of  the  song  which  had  been  haunt- 
ing him  all  the  day  :  — 

"  Then  mounte  !  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all. 
And  don  your  helmes  amaine  ; 
Death's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe,"  — 

sang  them  to  himself,  but  not  with  the  gay,  bright 
spirit  of  the  morning.  Then  he  seemed  to  see  the 
cavaliers,  brilliant  and  brave,  riding  out  to  the  en- 
counter. Now,  in  the  same  dim  and  fanciful  way, 
he  beheld  them  stretched,  still  and  dead,  upon  the 
plain. 


CHAPTER    II. 


'Thou  —  drugging  pain  by  patience." 

Arnold. 


"  T  ACES  cleaned,  and  fluting  and  ruffling  done 
-■ — '  here," — that  was  what  the  little  sign  swing- 
ing outside  the  little  green  door  said.  And,  coming 
under  it  into  the  cosey  little  rooms,  you  felt  this  was 
just  the  place  in  which  to  leave  things  soiled  and  torn, 
and  come  back  to  find  them,  by  some  mysterious  pro- 
cess, immaculate  and  whole. 

Two  rooms,  with  folding-doors  between,  in  which 
through  the  day  stood  a  counter,  cut  up  on  the  one 
side  into  divers  pigeon-holes  filled  with  small  boxes 
and  bundles,  carefully  pinned  and  labelled,  —  owner's 
name,  time  left,  time  to  be  called  for,  money  due ; 
neat  and  nice  as  a  new  pin,  as  every  one  said  who 
had  any  dealings  there. 

The  counter  was  pushed  back  now,  as  always  after 
seven  o'clock,  for  the  people  who  came  in  the  evening 
were  few ;  and  then,  when  that  was  out  of  the  way, 
it  seemed  more  home-like  and  less  shoppy,  as  Mrs. 
Franklin  said  every  night,  as  she  straightened  things 
out,  and  peered  through  the  window  or  looked  from 


IV/iat  Answer?  15 

the  front  door,  and  wondered  if  "  Abram  were  n't  later 
than  usual,"  though  she  knew  right  well  he  was  punc- 
tual as  clock-work,  —  good  clock-work  too,  —  when 
he  was  going  to  his  toil  or  hurrying  back  to  his  home. 
Pleasant  little  ^rooms,  with  the  cleanest  and  bright- 
est of  rag  carpets  on  the  floor  ;  a  paper  on  the  walls, 
cheap  enough,  but  gay  with  scarlet  rosebuds  and 
green  leaves,  rivalled  by  the  vines  and  berries  on  the 
pretty  chintz  curtains  ;  chairs  of  a  dozen  ages  and 
patterns,  but  all  of  them  with  open,  inviting  counte- 
nances and  a  hospitable  air ;  a  wood  fire  that  looked 
like  a  wood  fire  crackling  and  sparkling  on  the 
hearth,  shining  and  dancing  over  the  ceiling  and  the 
floor  and  the  walls,  cutting  queer  capers  with  the  big 
rocking-chair,  —  which  turned  into  a  giant  with  long 
arms,  —  and  with  the  little  figures  on  the  mantel-shelf, 
and  the  books  in  their  cases,  softening  and  glorifying 
the  two  grand  faces  hanging  in  their  frames  opposite, 
and  giving  just  light  enough  below  them  to  let  you 
read  "  John  Brown  "  and  "  Phillips,"  if  you  had  any 
occasion  to  read,  and  did  not  know  those  whom  the 
world  knows  ;  and  first  and  last,  and  through  all, 
as  if  it  loved  her,  and  was  loath  to  part  with  her  for 
a  moment,  whether  she  poked  the  flame,  or  straight- 
ened a  chair,  or  went  out  towards  the  little  kitchen  to 
lift  a  lid  and  smell  a  most  savory  stew,  or  came  back 
to  the  supper-table  to  arrange  and  rearrange  what  was 


1 6  JJ7ii7t  Answer? 

already  faultless  in  its  cleanliness  and  simplicity, 
wherev^er  she  went  and  whatever  she  did,  this  fire- 
light fell  warm  about  a  woman,  large  and  comfort- 
able and  handsome,  with  a  motherly  look  to  her  per- 
son, and  an  expression  that  was  all  kindness  in  her 
comely  face  and  dark,  soft  eyes,  —  eyes  and  face  and 
form,  though,  that  might  as  well  have  had  "  Pariah  " 
written  all  over  them,  and  "  leper  "  stamped  on  their 
front,  for  any  good,  or  beauty,  or  grace,  that  people 
could  find  in  them  ;  for  the  comely  face  was  a  dark 
face,  and  the  voice,  singing  an  old  Methodist  hymn, 
was  no  Anglo-Saxon  treble,  but  an  Anglo- African 
voice,  rich  and  mellow,  with  the  touch  of  pathos  or 
sorrow  always  heard  in  these  tones. 

"There  !"  she  said,  "there  he  is  !"  as  a  step,  hasty, 
yet  halting,  was  heard  on  the  pavement ;  and,  turning 
up  the  light,  she  ran  quickly  to  open  the  door,  which, 
to  be  sure,  was  unfastened,  and  to  give  the  greeting  to 
her  "boy,"  which,  through  many  a  year,  had  never 
been  omitted. 

Her  boy,  —  you  would  have  known  that  as  soon  as 
you  saw  him,  —  the  same  eyes,  same  face,  the  same 
kindly  look;  but  the  face  was  thinner  and  finer,  and 
the  brow  was  a  student's  brow,  full  of  thought  and  spec- 
ulation ;  and,  looking  from  her  hearty,  vigorous  form, 
you  saw  that  his  was  slight  to  attenuation. 

"  Sit  down,  sonny,  sit  down  and  rest.     There  !  how 


What  Answer?  17 

tired  you  look ! "  bustling  round  him,  smoothing  his 
thin  face  and  rough  hair.  "  Now  don't  do  that !  let 
your  old  mother  do  it !  "  It  pleased  her  to  call  her- 
self old,  though  she  was  but  just  in  her  prime.  "  You  've 
done  enough  for  one  day,  I  'm  sure,  waiting  on  other 
people,  and  walking  with  your  poor  lame  foot  till  you  're 
all  but  beat  out.  You  be  quiet  now,  and  let  somebody 
else  wait  on  you."  And,  going  down  on  her  knees,  she 
took  up  the  lame  foot,  and  began  to  unlace  the  cork- 
soled,  high-cut  shoe,  and,  drawing  it  out,  you  saw  that  it 
was  shrunken  and  small,  and  that  the  leg  was  shorter 
than  its  fellow. 

"  Poor  little  foot !  "  rubbing  it  tenderly,  smoothing 
the  -stocking  over  it,  and  chafing  it  to  bring  warmth  and 
life  to  its  surface.  Her  "baby,"  she  called  it,  for  it 
was  no  bigger  than  when  he  was  a  little  fellow.  "  Poor, 
tired  foot !  ain't  it  a  dreadful  long  walk,  sonny  ? " 

"  Pretty  long,  mother  j  but  I  'd  take  twice  that  to  do 
such  work  at  the  end." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  it 's  good  work,  and  Mr.  Surrey 's 
a  good  man,  and  a  kind  one,  that 's  sure  !  I  only  wish 
some  others  had  a  little  of  his  spirit.  Such  a  shame  to 
ha\'e  you  dragging  all  the  way  up  here,  when  any  dirty 
fellow  that  wants  to  can  ride.  I  don't  mind  for  myself 
so  much,  for  I  can  walk  about  spry  enough  yet,  and 
don't  thank  them  for  their  old  omnibuses  nor  cars ;  but 
it 's  too  bad  for  you,  so  it  is,  —  too  bad  !  " 

B 


1 8  UVicjf  Answer? 

"Never  mind,  mother!  keep  a  brave  heart.  'There's 
a  good  time  coming  soon,  a  good  time  coming ! '  as  I 
heard  j\Ir.  Hutchinson  sing  the  other  night,  —  and  it's 
true  as  gospel." 

"  Maybe  it  is,  sonny !  "  dubiously,  "  but  I  don't  see  it, 
—  not  a  sign  of  it,  —  no  indeed,  not  one!  It  gets 
worse  and  worse  all  the  time,  and  it  takes  a  deal  of 
faith  to  hold  on  ;  but  the  good  Lord  knows  best,  and 
it  'II  be  right  after  a  while,  anyhow !  And  now  t/iat  's 
straight !  "  pulling  a  soft  slipper  on  the  lame  foot,  and 
putting  its  mate  by  his  side  ;  then  going  off  to  pour 
out  the  tea,  and  dish  up  the  stew,  and  add  a  touch  or 
two  to  the  appetizing  supper-table. 

"  It 's  as  good  as  a  feast,"  —  taking  a  bite  out  of  her 
nice  home-made  bread,  —  "  better  'n  a  feast,  to  think  of 
you  in  that  place  ;  and  I  can't  scarcely  reahze  it  yet. 
It  seems  too  fine  to  be  true." 

"  That 's  the  way  I  've  felt  all  the  month,  mother !  It 
has  been  just  like  a  dream  to  me,  and  I  keep  thinking 
surely  I  'm  asleep  and  will  waken  to  find  this  is  just  an 
air-castle  I  've  been  building,  or  '  a  vision  oF  the  night/ 
as  the  good  book  says." 

"  Well,  it 's  a  blessed  vision,  sure  enough  !  and  I 
hope  to  the  good  Lord  it'll  last;  —  but  you  won't  if 
you  make  a  vision  of  your  supper  in  that  way.  You 
just  eat,  Abram!  and  have  done  your  talking  till  you're 
through,  if  you  can't  do  both  at  once.    Talking 's  good, 


What  Ansiverf  19 

but  eating's  better  when  you  're  hungry  ;  and  it 's  my 
opinion  you  ought  to  be  hungry,  if  you  ain't." 

So  the  teacups  were  filled  and  emptied,  and  the 
spoons  clattered,  and  the  stew  was  eaten,  and  the 
baked  potatoes  devoured,  and  the  bread-and-butter 
assaulted  vigorously,  and  general  havoc  made  with  the 
good  things  and  substantial  things  before  and  between 
them  ;  and  then,  this  duty  faithfully  performed,  the 
wreck  speedily  vanished  away;  and  cups  and  forks, 
spoons  and  plates,  knives  and  dishes,  cleaned  and 
cupboarded,  Mrs.  Franklin  came,  and,  drawing  away 
the  book  over  which  he  was  poring,  said,  while  she 
smoothed  face  and  hair  once  more,  "  Come,  Abram, 
what  is  it  ?  " 

"  What 's  what,  mother  ?  "  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  Something  ails  you,  sonny.     That 's  plain  enough. 
I  know  when  anything  's  gone  wrong  with  ye,  sure, 
and  something 's  gone  wrong  to-day." 

"  O  mother  1  you  worry  about  me  too  much,  in- 
deed you  do.  If  I  'm  a  little  tired  or  out  of  sorts,  — 
which  I  haven't  any  right  to  be,  not  here,  —  or 
quiet,  or  anything,  you  think  somebody  's  been  hurt- 
ing me,  or  abusing  me,  or  that  everything 's  gone 
wrong   with  me,  when    I    do    well    enough    all    the 

time." 

"  Now,  Abram,  you  can't  deceive  me,  —  not  that 
way.     My  eyes  is  mother's  eyes,  and  they  see  plain 


20  What  Answer? 

enough,  where  you  're  concerned,  without  spectacles. 
Who  's  been  putting  on  you  to-day  ?  Somebody.  You 
don't  carry  that  down  look  in  your  face  and  your  eyes 
for  nothing,  I  found  that  out  long  ago,  and  you  've 
got  it  on  to-night." 

"  O  mother  !  " 

"Don't  you  '  O  mother'  me  !  I  ain't  going  to  be 
put  off  in  that  way,  Abram,  an'  you  need  n't  think  it. 
Has  Mr.  Surrey  been  saying  anything  hard  to  you  ? " 

"  No,  indeed,  mother  ;  you  need  n't  ask  that." 

"  Nor  none  of  the  foremen  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  Has  Snipe  been  round  ?  " 

"  Has  n't  been  near  the  office  since  Mr.  Surrey  dis- 
missed him." 

"  Met  him  anywhere  ? " 

"  Nein ! "  laughing,  "  I  have  n't  laid  eyes  on 
him." 

"  Well,  the  men  have  been  saying  or  doing  some- 
thing then." 

"  N-no  ;  why,  what  an  inquisitor  it  is  !  " 

"  '  N-no.'  You  don't  say  that  full  and  plain,  Abram. 
Something  has  been  going  wrong  with  the  men.  Now 
what  is  it  ?    Come,  out  with  it." 

"  Well,  mother,  if  you  will  know,  you  will,  I  sup- 
pose ;  and,  as  you  never  get  tired  of  the  story,  I  '11 
go  over  the  whole  tale. 


W/ia^  Answer?  21 

"  So  long  as  I  was  Mr.  Surrey's  office-boy,  to  make 
his  fires,  and  sweep  and  dust,  and  keep  things  in 
order,  the  men  were  all  good  enough  to  me  after  their 
fashion  ;  and  if  some  of  them  growled  because  they 
thought  he  favored  me,  Mr.  Given,  or  some  one  said, 
*  O,  you  know  his  mother  was  a  servant  of  Mrs.  Sur- 
rey for  no  end  of  years,  and  of  course  Mr.  Surrey  has 
a  kind  of  interest  in  him '  ;  and  that  put  everything 
straight  again. 

"  Well !  you  know  how  good  Mr.  Willie  has  been  to 
me  ever  since  we  were  little  boys  in  the  same  house,  -— 
he  in  the  parlor  and  I  in  the  kitchen  ;  the  books  he  's 
given  me,  and  the  chances  he  's  made  me,  and  the  way 
he  's  put  me  in  of  learning  and  knowing.  And  he  's 
been  twice  as  kind  to  me  ever  since  I  refused  that 
offer  of  his." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  tell  me  about  it  again." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Surrey  sent  me  up  to  the  house  one  day, 
just  while  Mr.  Willie  was  at  home  from  college,  and 
he  stopped  me  and  had  a  talk  with  me,  and  asked 
me  in  his  pleasant  way,  not  as  if  I  were  a  '  nigger,'  but 
just  as  he  'd  talk  to  one  of  his  mates,  ever  so  many 
questions  about  myself  and  my  studies  and  my  plans  ; 
and  I  told  him  what  I  wanted,  —  how  hard  you 
worked,  and  how  I  hoped  to  fit  myself  to  go  into 
some  little  business  of  my  own,  not  a  barber-shop,  or 
any  such  thing,  but  something  that  'd    support  you 


22  What  Anszverf 

and  keep  you  like  a  lady  after  while,  and  that  would 
help  me  and  my  people  at  the  same  time.  For,  of 
course,"  I  said,  "  every  one  of  us  that  does  anything 
more  than  the  world  expects  us  to  do,  or  better,  makes 
the  world  think  so  much  the  more  and  better  of  us 
all." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  that  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  'd  seen  him  !  He  pushed  back  that 
beautiful  hair  of  his,  and  his  eyes  shone,  and  his 
mouth  trembled,  though  I  could  see  he  tried  hard  to 
hold  it  still,  and  put  up  his  hand  to  cover  it ;  and  he 
said,  in  a  solemn  sort  of  way,  '  Franklin,  3'ou  've  opened 
a  window  for  me,  and  I  sha'  n't  forget  what  I  see  through 
it  to-day.'  And  then  he  offered  to  set  me  up  in  some 
business  at  once,  and  urged  hard  when  I  declined." 

"  Say  it  all  over  again,  sonny  ;  what  was  it  you  told 
him  ? " 

"  I  said  that  would  do  well  enough  for  a  white 
man ;  that  he  could  help,  and  the  white  man  be  helped, 
just  as  people  were  being  and  doing  all  the  time,  and 
no  one  would  think  a  thought  about  it.  But,  sir,"  I 
said,  "  ever)^body  says  we  can  do  nothing  alone  ;  that 
we  're  a  poor,  shiftless  set ;  and  it  will  be  just  one  ot 
the  master  race  helping  a  nigger  to  climb  and  to 
stand  where  he  could  n't  climb  or  stand  alone,  and 
I  'd  rather  fight  my  batde  alone." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  well,  go  on,  go  on.  I  like  to  hear  what 
followed." 


W/iat  Anstver?  23 

"Well,  there  was  just  a  word  or  two  more,  and 
then  he  put  out  his  hand  and  shook  mine,  and  said 
good  by.  It  was  the  first  time  I  ever  shook  hands 
with  a  white  gefit/eman.  Some  white  hands  have 
shaken  mine,  but  they  always  made  me  feel  that  they 
were  white  and  that  mine  was  black,  and  that  it  was  a 
condescension.  I  felt  that,  when  they  did  n't  mean  I 
should.  But  there  was  nothing  between  us.  I  did  n't 
think  of  his  skin,  and,  for  once  in  my  Hfe,  I  quite  for- 
got I  was  black,  and  did  n't  remember  it  again  till  I 
got  out  on  the  street  and  heard  a  dirty  little  ragamuffin 
cry,  '  Hi !  hi !  don't  that  nagur  think  himself  foine  ? ' 
I  suspect,  in  spite  of  my  lameness,  I  had  been  holding 
up  my  head  and  walking  like  a  man." 

In  spite  of  his  lameness  he  was  holding  up  his 
head  and  walking  like  a  man  now  ;  up  and  down 
and  across  the  little  room,  trembling,  excited,  the 
words  rushing  in  an  eager  flow  from  his  mouth.  His 
mother  sat  quietly  rocking  herself  and  knitting.  She 
knew  in  this  mood  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  to 
him  ;  and,  indeed,  what  had  s/ie  to  say  save  that  which 
would  add  fuel  to  the  flame .? 

"Well!"  — a  long  sigh, —  "  after  that  Mr.  Surrey 
doubled  my  wages,  and  was  kinder  to  me  than  ever, 
and  watched  me,  as  I  saw,  quite  closely ;  and  that  was 
the  way  he  found  out  about  Mr.  Snipe. 

"  You  see  Mr.  Snipe  had  been  very  careless  about 


24  \V/iat  Answer? 

keeping  the  books  ;  would  come  down  late  in  the 
mornings,  just  before  Mr.  Surrey  came  in,  and  go 
away  early  in  the  afternoons,  as  soon  as  he  had  left. 
Of  course  the  books  got  behindhand  every  month, 
and  Mr.  Snipe  did  n't  want  to  stay  and  work  over- 
hours  to  make  them  up.  One  day  he  found  out,  by 
something  I  said,  that  I  understood  book-keeping, 
and  tried  me,  and  then  got  me  to  take  them  home  at 
night  and  go  over  them.  I  did  n't  know  then  how 
bad  he  was  doing,  and  that  I  had  no  business  to  shield 
him,  and  all  went  smooth  enough  till  the  day  I  was 
too  sick  to  get  down  to  the  office,  and  two  of  the 
books  were  at  home.  Then  Mr.  Surrey  discovered 
the  whole  thing.  There  was  a  great  row,  it  seems ; 
and  Mr.  Surrey  examined  the  books,  and  found,  as  he 
was  pleased  to  sa}-,  that  I  'd  kept  them  in  first-rate 
st}'le ;  so  he  dismissed  Mr.  Snipe  on  the  spot,  with 
six  months'  pay,  —  for  you  know  he  never  does  any- 
thing by  halves,  —  and  put  me  in  his  place. 

"The  men  don't  like  it,  I  know,  and  have  n't  liked 
it,  but  of  course  they  can't  say  anything  to  him,  and 
they  have  n't  said  anything  to  me ;  but  I  've  seen  all 
along  that  they  looked  at  me  wuth  no  friendly  eyes,  and 
for  the  last  day  or  tsvo  I  've  heard  a  word  here  and 
there  which  makes  me  think  there  's  trouble  brewing, 
—  bad  enough,  I  'm  afraid  ;  maybe  to  the  losing  of  my 
place,  though  Mr.  Surrey  has  said  nothing  about  it  to 
m«." 


W/iaif  Ajiswerf  25 

Just  here  the  little  green  door  opened,  and  the  fore- 
man whom  we  have  before  seen  —  James  Given  as  the 
register  had  him  entered,  Jim  Given  as  every  one 
knew  him  —  came  in ;  no  longer  with  grimy  face  and 
flannel  sleeves,  but  brave  in  all  his  Sunday  finery,  and 
as  handsome  a  b'hoy,  they  said,  at  his  engine-house, 
as  any  that  ran  with  the  machine  ;  having  on  his  arm 
a  young  lady  whom  he  apostrophized  as  SaUie,  as  hand- 
some and  brave  as  he. 

"  Evening,"  —  a  nod  of  the  head  accompanying. 
"  Miss  Howard's  traps  done  ? " 

"  I  wish  you  would  n't  say  '  traps,'  Jim,"  corrected 
Sallie,  sotto  voce :  "  it 's  not  proper.  It 's  for  a  collar  and 
pair  of  cuffs,  Mrs.  Franklin,"  she  added  aloud,  putting 
down  a  little  check. 

"  Not  proper  !  goodness  gracious  me !  there  spoke 
Snipe  !  Come,  Sallie,  you  've  pranced  round  with  that 
stuck-up  jackanapes  till  you  're  getting  spoiled  entirely, 
so  you  are,  and  I  scarcely  know  you.  Not  proper, 
—  O  my  !  " 

"  Spoiled,  am  1 1  Thank  you,  sir,  for  the  compliment ! 
And  you  don't  know  me  at  all, — don't  you  ?  Very  well, 
then  I  '11  say  good  night,  and  leave  ;  for  it  would  n't  be 
proper  to  take  a  young  lady  you  don't  know  to  the  thea- 
tre, —  nov/,  would  it  ?  Good  by  !  "  —  making  for  the 
door. 

"  Now  don't,  Sallie,  please." 


26  What  Ansivcrf 

"  Don't  what  ? " 

"  Don't  talk  that  way." 

"Don't  yourself,  more  like.  You  're  just  as  cross  as 
cross  can  be,  and  disagreeable,  and  hateful,  —  all  be- 
cause I  happen  to  know  there  's  some  other  man  in  the 
world  besides  yourself,  and  smile  at  him  now  and  then. 
'  Don't,'  indeed  !  " 

"  Come,  Sallie,  you  're  too  hard  on  a  fellow.  It 's 
your  own  fault,  you  know  well  enough,  if  you  wi//  be 
so  handsome.  Now,  if  you  were  an  ugly  old  girl,  or  I 
was  certain  of  you,  I  should  n't  feel  so  bad,  nor  act  so 
neither.  But  when  there  's  a  lot  of  hungry  chaps  round, 
all  gaping  to  gobble  you  up,  and  even  poor  little  Snipes 
trying  to  peck  and  bite  at  you,  and  you  won't  say  '  yes ' 
nor  '  no '  to  me,  how  do  you  expect  a  man  to  keep 
cool  ?  Can't  do  it,  nohow,  and  you  need  n't  ask  it. 
Human  nature  's  human  nature,  I  suppose,  and  mine 
ain't  a  quiet  nor  a  patient  one,  not  by  no  manner  of 
means.  Come,  Sallie,  own  up  ;  you  would  n't  like  me 
so  well  as  I  hope  you  do  if  it  was,  —  now,  would  you  ? " 

Mrs.  Franklin  smiled,  though  she  had  heard  not  a 
word  of  the  lovers'  quarrel,  as  she  put  a  pin  in  the  back 
of  the  ruffled  collar  which  Sallie  had  come  to  reclaim. 
A  quarrel  it  had  evidently  been,  and  as  evidently  the 
lady  was  mollified,  for  she  said,  "  Don't  be  absurd,  Jim !" 
and  Jim  laughed  and  responded,  "All  right,  Sallie, 
you  're  an  angel !     But  come,  we  must  hurry,  or  the 


What  Answer  f  27 

curtain '11  be  up,"  —  and  away  \Yent  the  dashing  and 
handsome  couple. 

Abram,  shutting  in  the  shutters,  and  fastening  the 
door,  sat  down  to  a  quiet  evening's  reading,  while  his 
mother  knitted  and  sewed,  —  an  evening  the  likeness 
of  a  thousand  others  of  which  they  never  tired ;  for 
this  mother  and  son,  to  whom  fate  had  dealt  so  hard  a 
measure,  upon  whom  the  world  had  so  persistently 
frowned,  were  more  to  each  other  than  most  mothers 
and  sons  whose  lines  had  fallen  in  pleasanter  places, 
—  compensation,  as  Mr.  Emerson  says,  being  the  law 
of  existence  the  world  over. 


CHAPTER    III. 


Ever}'  one  has  his  day,  from  which  he  dates." 

Old  Proveri 


*'  AT'OU  see,  Surrey,  the  school  is  something  extra, 

JL  and  the  performances,  and  it  will  please  Clara 
no  end ;  so  I  thought  I  'd  run  over,  and  inveigled 
you  into  going  along  for  fear  it  should  be  stupid,  and  I 
would  need  some  recreation." 

"  Which  I  am  to  afford  ?  " 

"Verily." 

"  As  clown  or  grindstone  ?  —  to  make  laugh,  or 
sharpen  your  wits  upon  ? " 

"Far  be  it  from  me  to  dictate.  Whichever  suits 
your  character  best.  On  the  whole,  I  think  the  last 
would  be  the  most  appropriate  ;  the  first  I  can  swear 
would  n't !  " 

"  Pourquoi  ?  " 

"  O,  a  woman's  reason,  —  because  !  " 

"  Because  why  ?     Am  I  cross  1 " 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  Rough  ? " 

"  As  usual,  —  like  a  May  breeze." 

"  Cynical  ? " 


What  Answer f  29 

"  As  Epicurus." 

"  Irritable  ? " 

"  '  A  countenance  [and  manner]  more  in  sorrow  than 
in  anger.'    Something  's  wrong  with  you ;  who  is  she  ?  " 

"  She ! " 

"  Ay,  —  she.  That  was  a  wise  Eastern  king  who 
put  at  the  bottom  of  every  trouble  and  mischief  a 
woman." 

"  Fine  estimate." 

"  Correct  one.  Evidently  he  had  studied  the  genus 
thoroughly,  and  had  a  poor  opinion  of  it." 

"  No  wonder." 

"  Amazing !  you  say  *  no  wonder ' !  Astounding 
words  !  speak  them  again.  " 

"  No  wonder,  —  seeing  that  he  had  a  mother,  and 
that  she  had  such  a  son.  He  must  needs  have  been  a 
bad  fellow  or  a  fool  to  have  originated  so  base  a  phi- 
losophy, and  how  then  could  he  respect  the  source  of 
such  a  stream  as  himself.?  " 

"  Sir  Launcelot,  —  squire  of  dames  !  " 

"  Not  Sir  Launcelot,  but  squire  of  dames,  I  hope." 

"  There  you  go  again  !  Now  I  shall  query  once  more, 
who  is  she  ? " 

"  No  woman." 

"No?" 

"No,  though  by  your  smiling  you  would  seem  to 
say  so ! " 


30  JV/iat  Answer? 

"  Nay,  I  believe  you,  and  am  vastly  relieved  in  the 
believing.  Take  advice  from  ten  years  of  superior  age, 
and  fifty  of  experience,  and  have  naught  to  do  with 
them.     Dost  hear  t  " 

"  I  do." 

"  And  will  heed  ?  " 

"  Which  ?  —  the  words  or  the  acts  of  my  counsellor  ? 
who,  of  a  surety,  preaches  wisely  and  does  foolishly,  or 
who  does  wisely  and  preaches  foolishly  ;  for  preaching 
and  practice  do  not  agree." 

"  Nay,  man,  thou  art  unreasonable ;  to  perform 
either  well  is  beyond  the  capacity  of  most  humans, 
and  I  desire  not  to  be  blessed  above  my  betters. 
Then  let  my  rash  deeds  and  my  prudent  words  both 
be  teachers  unto  thee.  But  if  it  be  true  that  no  woman 
is  responsible  for  your  grave  countenance  this  morn- 
ing, then  am  I  wasting  words,  and  will  return  to  our 
muttons.     What  ails  you  ? " 

"  I  am  belligerent." 

"  I  see,  — that  means  quarrelsome." 

"  And  hopeless." 

"  Bad,  — very  !  belligerent  and  hopeless  !  When  you 
go  into  a  fight  always  expect  to  wdn ;  the  thought  is 
half  the  victory." 

"  Suppose  you  are  an  atom  against  the  universe?" 

"  Don't  fight,  succumb.  There  's  a  proverb,  —  a 
wise  one,  —  Napoleon's,  '  God  is  on  the  side  of  the 
strongest  battalions.' " 


JV/iac  Answer?  31 

"  A  lie,  —  exploded  at  Waterloo.  There  's  another 
proverb,  'One  on  the  side  of  God  is  a  majority.' 
How  about  that  ? " 

"  Transcendental  humbug." 

"  A  truth  demonstrated  at  Wittenberg." 

"  Are  you  aching  for  the  martyr's  palm  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  not.  On  the  whole,  I  think  I'd  rather 
enjoy  life  than  quarrel  with  it.  But  "  —  with  a  sudden 
blaze  —  "I  feel  to-day  like  fighting  the  world." 

"  Hey,  presto  !  what  now,  young  'un  ? " 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  stare  ! "  —  a  little  laugh. 
"  I'm  talking  like  a  fool,  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
feeling  like  one,  aching  to  fight,  and  knowing  that  I 
might  as  well  quarrel  with  the  winds,  or  stab  that 
water  as  it  flows  by." 

"  As  with  what  ? " 

"  The  fellow  I've  just  been  getting  a  good  look  at." 

"  What  manner  of  fellow  ? " 

"  Ignorant,  selfish,  brutal,  devilish." 

"  Tremendous  !  why  don't  you  bind  him  over  to 
keep  the  peace  ? " 

"  Because  he  is  like  the  judge  of  old  time,  neither 
fears  God  nor  respects  his  image,  —  when  his  image  is 
carved  in  ebony,  and  not  ivory." 

"  What  do  you  call  this  fellow  ?  " 

"  Public  Opinion." 

"  This  big  fellow  is  abusing  and  devouring  a  poor 
little  chap,  eh  ?  and  the  chap  's  black  ?  " 


32  UVial  Atiswer? 

"  True." 

"  And  sometimes  the  giant  is  a  gentleman  in  purple 
and  fine  linen,  otherwise  broadcloth  ;  and  sometimes 
in  hodden  gray,  otherwise  homespun  or  slop-shop  ;  and 
sometimes  he  cuts  the  poor  little  chap  with  a  silver 
knife,  which  is  rhetoric,  and  sometimes  with  a  wooden 
spoon,  which  is  raw-hide.  Am  I  stating  it  all  cor- 
rectly ? " 

"  All  correctly." 

"  And  you  've  been  watching  this  operation  when 
you  had  better  have  been  minding  your  own  business, 
and  getting  excited  w^hen  you  had  better  have  kept 
cool,  and  now  w^ant  to  rush  into  the  fight,  drums 
beating  and  colors  flying,  to  the  rescue  of  the  small 
one.  Don't  deny  it,  —  it  's  all  written  out  in  your 
eyes." 

"  I  sha'  n't  deny  it,  except  about  the  business  and 
the  keeping  cool.  It  's  any  gentleman's  business  to  in- 
terfere between  a  bully  and  a  weakling  that  he  's  abus- 
ing ;  and  his  blood  must  be  water  that  does  not  boil 
while  he  '  watches  the  operation  '  as  you  say,  and  goes 
in." 

"  To  get  well  pommelled  for  his  pains,  and  do  no 
good  to  any  one,  himself  included.  Let  the  weakling 
alone.  A  fellow  that  can't  save  himself  is  not  worth 
saving.  If  he  can't  swim  nor  walk,  let  him  drop  under 
or  go  to  the  wall ;  that  's  my  theory." 


JV/iat  Answer?  33 

"  Anglo-Saxon  theory  —  and  practice." 
"Good   theory,   excellent  practice,  —  m  the  main. 
What  special  phase  of  it  has  been  disturbing  your 
equanimity  ? " 

"  You  know  the  Franklins  ? " 

«  Of  course  :  Aunt  Mina's  son  — what's  his  name?— 
is  a  sort  oi protege  of  yours,  I  believe  :  what  of  him  ?" 
"  He  is  cleanly  ?  " 
"  A  nice  question.     Doubtless." 
"  Respectable  ? " 
<'  What  are  you  driving  at  ? " 
"  InteUigent  ? " 
"  Most  true." 
"  Ambitious  ? " 
"  Or  his  looks  belie  him." 

«  Faithful,  trusty,  active,  helpful,  in  eveiy  way  de- 
voted to  my  father's  service  and  his  work." 

"With  Sancho,  I  beheve  it  all  because  your  worship 

says  so." 

"Well,  this  man  has  just  been  discharged  from  my 
father's  employ  because  seven  hundred  and  fbrty-t^vo 
other  men  gave  notice  to  quit  if  he  remained." 

"  The  reason  ? " 

"  His  skin." 

"  The  reason  is  not  '  so  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide 
as  a  church-door,  but  it  is  enough.'  Of  course  they 
would  n't  work  with  him,  and  my  uncle  Surrey,  beggmg 


34  IV/ia^  Answer? 

your  pardon,  should  not  have  attempted  anything  so 
Quixotic." 

"His  skin  covering  so  many  excellent  qualities, 
and  these  qualities  gaining  recognition,  —  that  was  the 
cause.  They  worked  with  him  so  long  as  he  was  a 
servant  of  servants  :  so  soon  as  he  demonstrated  that 
he  could  strike  out  strongly  and  swim,  they  knocked 
him  under ;  and,  proving  that  he  could  walk  alone, 
they  ran  hastily  to  shove  him  to  the  wall." 

"  What !  quoting  my  own  words  against  me  ? " 

"  Anglo-Saxon  says  we  are  the  masters  :  we  monopo- 
lize the  strength  and  courage,  the  beauty,  intelligence, 
power.  These  creatures,  —  what  are  they?  poor, 
worthless,  lazy,  ignorant,  good  for  nothing  but  to  be 
used  as  machines,  to  obey.  When  lo  !  one  of  these 
dumb  machines  suddenly  starts  forth  with  a  man's 
face;  this  creature  no  longer  obeys,  but  evinces  a 
right  to  command ;  and  Anglo-Saxon  speedily  breaks 
him  in  pieces." 

"  Come,  Willie,  I  hope  you  're  not  going  to  assert 
these  people  our  equals,  —  that  would  be  too  much." 

*'  They  have  no  intelligence,  Anglo-Saxon  declares, 
—  then  refuses  them  schools,  while  he  takes  of  their 
money  to  help  educate  his  own  sons.  They  have  no 
ambition,  —  then  closes  upon  them  every  door  of  hon- 
orable advancement,  and  cries  through  the  key-hole, 
Serve,  or  starve.     They  cannot  stand  alone,  they  have 


W/iat  Aiiszuer?  35 

no  faculty  for  rising,  —  then,  if  one  of  them  finds 
foothold,  the  ground  is  undermined  beneath  him.  If 
a  head  is  seen  above  the  crowd,  the  ladder  is  jerked 
away,  and  he  is  trampled  into  the  dust  where  he  is 
fallen.  If  he  stays  in  the  position  to  which  Anglo- 
Saxon  assigns  him,  he  is  a  worthless  nigger ;  if  he 
protests  against  it,  he  is  an  insoleiit  nigger ;  if  he  rises 
above  it,  he  is  a  nigger  not  to  be  tolerated  at  all,  —  to 
be  crushed  and  buried  speedily." 

"  Now,  WiUie,  '  no  more  of  this,  an  thou  lovest  me.' 
I  came  not"  out  to-day  to  listen  to  an  abolition  ha- 
rangue, nor  a  moral  homily,  but  to  have  a  good  time, 
to  be  civil  and  merry  withal,  if  you  will  allow  it.  Of 
course  you  don't  like  Franklin's  discharge,  and  of 
course  you  have  done  something  to  compensate  him. 
I  know  —  you  have  found  him  another  place.  No,  — 
you  could  n't  do  that  ? " 

"  No,  I  could  n't." 

"  Well,  you  've  settled  him  somewhere,  —  confess." 

"  He  has  some  work  for  the  present ;  some  copying 
for  me,  and  translating,  for  this  unfortunate  is  a  scholar, 
you  know." 

"  Very  good ;  then  let  it  rest.  Granted  the  poor 
devils  have  a  bad  time  of  it,  you  're  not  bound  to  sacri- 
fice yourself  for  them.  If  you  go  on  at  this  pace, 
you'll  bring  up  with  the  long-haired,  bloomer  reformers, 
and  then — God  help  you.     No,  you  need   n't  say 


36  What  Ajiswcr? 

another  word,  —  I  sha'  n't  listen,  —  not  one  ;  so.  Here 
we  are  !  school  yonder,  —  well  situated  ? " 

"  Capitally." 

"Fine  day." 

"Very." 

"Clara  will  be  charmed  to  see  you." 

"  You  flatter  me.     I  hope  so." 

"  There,  now  you  talk  rationally.  Don't  relapse. 
We  will  go  up  and  hear  the  pretty  creatures  read 
their  little  pieces,  and  sing  their  little  songs,  and  see 
them  take  their  nice  blue-ribboned  diplomas,  and  fall 
in  love  with  their  dear  little  faces,  and  flirt  a  bit  this 
evening,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  take  Ma'm'selle  Clara 
home  to  Mamma  Russell,  and  you  may -go  your  ways." 

"  The  programme  is  satisfactory." 

"  Good.     Come  on  then." 

All  Commencement  days,  at  college  or  young  ladies' 
school,  if  not  t:\vin  brothers  and  sisters,  are  at  least 
first  cousins,  with  a  strong  family  likeness.  Who  that 
has  passed  through  one,  or  witnessed  one,  needs  any 
description  thereof  to  furbish  up  its  memories.  This 
of  Professor  Hale's  belonged  to  the  great  tribe,  and  its 
form  and  features  were  of  the  old  established  type. 
The  young  ladies  were  charming ;  plenty  of  white 
gowns,  plenty  of  flowers,  plenty  of  smiles,  blushes,  tre- 
mors, hopes,  and  fears  ;  little  songs,  little  pieces,  little 
addresses;  to  be  sung,  to  be  played,  to  be  read,  just  as 


W/iai  Answer?  37 

Tom  Russell  had  foreshadowed,  and  proving  to 
be  — 

"  Just  the  least  of  a  bore  !  "  as  he  added  after  listen- 
ing awhile ;  "  don't  you  think  so,  Surrey  ? " 

"Hush!  don't  talk." 

Tom  stared ;  then  followed  his  cousin's  eye,  fixed 
immovably  upon  one  little  spot  on  the  platform.  "  By 
Jove  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  a  beauty  !  As  Father  Dryden 
would  say,  '  this  is  the  porcelain  clay  of  humankind.' 
No  wonder  you  look.     Who  is  she,  —  do  you  know  ? " 

"No." 

"  No  !  short,  clear,  and  decisive.  Don't  devour  her, 
Will.  Remember  the  sermon  I  preached  you  an  hour 
ago.  Come,  look  at  this,"  —  thrusting  a  programme 
into  his  face,  —  "  and  stop  staring.  Why,  boy,  she  has 
bewitched  you,  —  or  inspired  you,"  —  surv^eying  him 
sharply. 

And  indeed  it  would  seem  so.  Eyes,  mouth,  face, 
instinct  with  some  subtle  and  thrilling  emotion.  As 
gay  Tom  Russell  looked,  he  involuntarily  stretched  out 
his  hand,  as  one  would  put  it  between  another  and 
some  danger  of  which  that  other  is  unaware,  and  re- 
membered what  he  had  once  said  in  talking  of  him,  — 
"  If  Will  Surrey's  time  does  come,  I  hope  the  girl  will 
be  all  right  in  every  way,  for  he  '11  plunge  headlong, 
and  love  like  distraction  itself,  —  no  half-way ;  it  will 
be  a  life-and-death  affair  for  him."  "  Come,  I  must 
break  in  on  this." 


38  JV/iat  Answer? 

"Surrey!" 

"Yes." 

"  There's  a  pretty  girl." 

No  answer. 

"  There  !  over  yonder.  Third  seat,  second  row. 
See  her  ?     Pretty  ?  " 

"  Very  pretty." 

"  IMiss  —  Miss  —  what 's  her  name  ?  O,  Miss  Perry 
played  that  last  thing  very  well  for  a  school-girl,  eh  ? " 

"  Very  well." 

"  Admirable  room  this,  for  hearing ;  rare  quality 
with  chapels  and  halls ;  architects  in  planning  gener- 
ally tax  ingenuity  how  to  confuse  sound.  Now  these 
girls  don't  make  a  great  noise,  yet  you  can  distinguish 
every  word,  —  can't  you  ? " 

No  response. 

"  I  say,  can't  you  ?  " 

"Ever}'  word." 

Tom  drew  a  long  breath. 

*'  Professor  Hale  's  a  sensible  old  fellow  ;  I  like  the 
way  he  conducts  this  school."  (Mem.  Tom  didn't 
know  a  thing  about  it.)  "Carries  it  on  excellently." 
A  pause. 

Silence. 

"  Fine-looking,  too.  A  man's  physique  has  a  deal 
to  do  with  his  success  in  the  world.  If  he  carries  a 
letter  of  recommendation  in  his  face,  people  take  him 


W/iat  Answer?  39 

on  trust  to  begin  with  j  and  if  he  's  a  big  fellow,  like 
the  Professor  yonder,  he  imposes  on  folks  awfully ; 
they  pop  down  on  their  knees  to  him,  and  clear  the 
track  for  him,  as  if  he  had  a  right  to  it  all.  Bless  me  ! 
I  never  thought  of  that  before,  —  it's  the  reason  you 
and  I  have  got  on  so  swimmingly,  —  is  it  not,  now  ? 
Certainly.     You  think  so  ?     Of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  —  sedately  and  gravely  spoken. 

Tom  groaned,  for,  with  a  face  kind  and  bright,  he 
was  yet  no  beauty  ;  while  if  Surrey  had  one  crowning 
gift  in  this  day  of  fast  youths  and  self-satisfied  Young 
America,  it  was  that  of  modesty  with  regard  to  him- 
self and  any  gifts  and  graces  nature  had  blessed  him 
withal. 

"  Clara  has  a  nice  voice." 

"  Very  nice." 

"  She  is  to  sing,  do  you  know  ? " 

"  I  know." 

"  Do  you  know  when  ? " 

No  reply. 

"  She  sings  the  next  piece.  Are  you  ready  to  lis- 
ten?" 

"  Ready." 

"  Good  Lord  ! "  cried  Tom,  in  despair,  "  the  fellow 
has  lost  his  wits.  He  has  turned  parrot ;  he  has  done 
nothing  but  repeat  my  words  for  me  since  he  sat  here. 
He 's  an  echo." 


40  What  Answer f 

"  Echo  of  nothingness  ? "  queried  the  parrot,  smil- 
ingly. 

"  Ah,  you  've  come  to  yourself,  have  you  ?  Capi- 
tal !  now  stay  awake.  There  's  Clara  to  sing  directly, 
and  you  are  to  cheer  her,  and  look  as  if  you  enjoyed 
it,  and  throw  her  that  bouquet  when  I  tell  you,  and  let 
her  think  it 's  a  fine  thing  she  has  been  doing ;  for 
this  is  a  tremendous  affair  to  her,  poor  child,  of 
course." 

"  How  bright  and  happy  she  is !  You  will  laugh 
at  me,  Tom,  and  indeed  I  don't  know  what  has  come 
over  me,  but  somehow  I  feel  quite  sad,  looking  at 
those  girls,  and  wondering  what  fate  and  time  have 
in  store  for  them." 

"  Sunshine  and  bright  hours." 

"  The  day  cometh,  and  also  the  night,"  —  broke  in 
the  clear  voice  that  was  reading  a  selection  from  the 
Scriptures. 

Tom  started,  and  Willie  took  from  his  button-hole 
just  such  a  little  nosegay  as  that  he  had  bought  on 
Broadway  a  fortnight  before,  —  a  geranium  leaf,  a  bit 
of  mignonette,  and  a  delicate  tea-rosebud,  and,  seeing 
it  w^as  drooping,  laid  it  carefully  upon  the  programme 
on  his  knee.  "  I  don't  want  that  to  fade,"  he  thought 
as  he  put  it  down,  while  he  looked  across  the  platform 
at  the  same  face  which  he  had  so  eagerly  pursued 
through  a  labyrinth  of  carriages,  stages,  and  people, 
and  lost  at  last. 


II Via t  Answer?  41 

"  There !  Clara  is  talking  to  your  beauty.  I  won- 
der if  she  is  to  sing,  or  do  anything.  If  she  does,  it 
will  be  something  dainty  and  fine,  I  '11  wager.  Hel- 
loa  !  there  's  Clara  up,  —  now  for  it." 

Clara's  bright  little  voice  suited  her  bright  little  face, 
—  like  her  brother's,  only  a  great  deal  prettier,  —  and 
the  young  men  enjoyed  both,  aside  from  brotherly  and 
cousinly  feeling,  cheered  her  "  to  the  echo  "  as  Willie 
said,  threw  their  bouquets, —  great,  gorgeous  things 
they  had  brought  from  the  city  to  please  her,  —  and 
wished  there  was  more  of  it  all  when  it  was  through. 

"What  next.?"  said  Willie. 

"  Heaven  preserve  us  !  your  favorite  subject.  Who 
would  expect  to  tumble  on  such  a  theme  here?  — 
'  Slavery  ;  by  Francesca  Ercildoune.'  Odd  name,  — 
and,  by  Jove  !  it 's  the  beauty  herself" 

They  both  leaned  forward  eagerly  as  she  came  from 
her  seat ;  slender,  shapely,  every  fibre  fine  and  exqui- 
site, no  coarse  graining  from  the  dainty  head  to  the 
dainty  foot ;  the  face,  clear  olive,  delicate  and  beauti- 
ful,— 

"The  mouth  with  steady  sweetness  set, 
And  eyes  conveying  unaware 
The  distant  hint  of  some  regret 
That  harbored  there,"  — 

eyes  deep,  tender,  and  pathetic. 

"  What 's  this  ?  "  said  Tom.  "  Queer.  It  gives  me 
a  heartache  to  look  at  her." 


42  W/iaf  Ajiswer? 

"  A  woman  for  whom  to  fight  the  world,  or  lose  the 
world,  and  be  compensated  a  million-fold  if  you  died 
at  her  feet,"  thought  Surrey,  and  said  nothing. 

"What  a  strange  subject  for  her  to  select!  "  broke 
in  Tom. 

It  was  a  strange  one  for  the  time  and  place,  and  she 
had  been  besought  to  drop  it,  and  take  another  ;  but  it 
should  be  that  or  nothing,  she  asserted,  —  so  she  was 
left  to  her  own  device. 

Oddly  treated,  too.  Tom  thought  it  would  be  a 
pretty  lady-like  essay,  and  said  so  ;  then  sat  astound- 
ed at  what  he  saw  and  heard.  Her  face  — this  school- 
girl's face  —  grew  pallid,  her  eyes  mournful,  her 
voice  and  manner  sublime,  as  she  summoned  this 
monster  to  the  bar  of  God's  justice  and  the  humanity 
of  the  world  ;  as  she  arraigned  it ;  as  she  brought  wit- 
ness after  witness  to  testify  against  it ;  as  she  proved  its 
horrible  atrocities  and  monstrous  barbarities  ;  as  she 
went  on  to  the  close,  and,  lifting  hand  and  face  and 
voice  together,  thrilled  out,  "I  look  backward  into 
the  dim,  distant  past,  but  it  is  one  night  of  oppression 
and  despair ;  I  turn  to  the  present,  but  I  hear  naught 
save  the  mother's  broken-hearted  shriek,  the  infant's 
wail,  the  groan  wrung  from  the  strong  man  in  agony ; 
I  look  forward  into  the  future,  but  the  night  grows 
darker,  the  shadows  deeper  and  longer,  the  tempest 
wilder,  and  involuntarily  I  cry  out,  '  How  long,  O 
God,  how  long?'" 


W/iat  Ansiver?  43 

"Heavens !  what  an  actress  she  would  make !"  said 
somebody  before  them. 

"That's  genius,"  said  somebody  behind  them; 
"but  what  a  subject  to  waste  it  upon  ! " 

"  Very  bad  taste,  I  must  say,  to  talk  about  such  a 
thing  here,"  said  somebody  beside  them.  "  However, 
one  can  excuse  a  great  deal  to  beauty  like  that." 

Surrey  sat  still,  and  felt  as  though  he  were  on  fire, 
filled  with  an  insane  desire  to  seize  her  in  one  arm 
like  a  knight  of  old,  and  hew  his  way  through  these 
beings,  and  out  of  this  place,  into  some  solitary'  spot 
where  he  could  seat  her  and  kneel  at  her  feet,  and  die 
there  if  she  refused  to  take  him  up ;  filled  with  all 
the  sweet,  extravagant,  delicious  pain  that  thrills  the 
heart,  full  of  passion  and  purity,  of  a  young  man  who 
begins  to  love  the  first,  overwhelming,  only  love  of  a 
lifetime. 


CHAPTER    IV. 


"  'T  is  an  old  tale,  and  often  told." 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


THAT  evening  some  people  who  were  near  them 
were  talking  about  it.  and  that  made  Tom  ask 
Clara  if  her  friend  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  startling 
things. 

"Should  you  think  so  to  look  at  her  now?"  queried 
Clara,  looking  across  the  room  to  where  Miss  Ercil- 
doune  stood. 

"  Indeed  I  should  n't,"  Tom  replied ;  and  indeed 
no  one  would  who  saw  her  then.  "  She  's  as  sweet  as 
a  sugar-plum,"  he  added,  as  he  continued  to  look. 
"  What  does  she  mean  by  getting  off  such  rampant  dis- 
courses ?  She  never  wrote  them  herself,  —  don't  tell 
me ;  at  least  somebody  else  put  her  up  to  it,  —  that 
strong-minded-looking  teacher  over  yonder,  for  in- 
stance. She  looks  capable  of  anything,  aiid  something 
worse,  in  the  denouncing  way ;  poor  little  beauty  was 
her  cat's-paw  this  morning." 

"  O  Tom,  how  you  talk !  She  is  nobody's  cat's- 
paw.  I  can  tell  you  she  does  her  own  thinking  and 
acting  too.     If  you'd  just  go  and  do  something  hateful, 


What  Answer?  45 

or  impose  on  somebody,  —  one  of  the  waiters,  for  in- 
stance, —  you'd  see  her  blaze  up,  fast  enough." 
"  Ah  !  philanthropic  ? " 

Clara  looked  puzzled.  "  I  don't  know ;  we  have 
some  girls  here  who  are  all  the  time  talking  about 
benevolence,  and  charity,  and  the  like,  and  they  have 
a  little  sewing-circle  to  make  up  things  to  be  sold  for 
the  church  mission,  or  something,  —  I  don't  know 
just  what ;  but  Francesca  won't  go  near  it." 
"  Democratic,  then,  maybe." 

"  No,  she  is  n't,  not  a  bit.  She  's  a  thorough  little 
aristocrat :  so  exclusive  she  has  nothing  to  say  to  the 
most  of  us.  I  wonder  she  ever  took  me  for  a  friend, 
though  I  do  love  her  dearly." 

Tom  looked  down  at  his  bright  little  sister,  and 
thought  the  wonder  was  not  a  very  great  one,  but 
did  n't  say  so ;  reserving  his  gallantries  for  somebody 
else's  sister. 

"  You  seem  greatly  taken  with  her,  Tom." 
"  I  own  the  soft  impeachment." 
"  Well,  you  '11  have  a  fair  chance,  for  she  's  coming 
home  with   me.     I  wrote  to  mamma,  and  she  says, 
bring  her  by  all  means,  —  and  Mr.  Ercildoune  gives 
his  consent ;  so  it  is  all  settled." 

"  Mr.  Ercildoune  !  is  there  no  Mrs.  E.  ?" 
"  None,  —her  mother  died  long  ago  ;  and  her  father 
has  not  been  here,  so  I  can't  tell  you  anything  about 


46  JV/iai  Answer? 

him.  There  :  do  you  see  that  elegant-looking  lady 
talking  with  Professor  Hale  ?  that  is  her  aunt,  Mrs. 
Lancaster.  She  is  English,  and  is  here  only  on  a 
visit.  She  wants  to  take  Francesca  home  with  her  in 
the  spring,  but  I  hope  she  won't." 

"  Why,  what  is  it  to  you  ?  " 

'^  I  am  afraid  she  will  stay,  and  then  I  shall  never 
see  her  any  more." 

"  And  why  stay  ?  do  you  fancy  England  so  very 
fascinating  ? " 

"  No,  it  is  not  that  ;  but  Francesca  don't  like 
America;  she  's  forever  saying  something  witty  and 
sharp  about  our  '  democratic  institutions,'  as  she  calls 
them ;  and,  if  you  had  looked  this  morning,  you  'd 
have  seen  that  she  did  n't  sing  The  Star-Spangled 
Banner  with  the  rest  of  us.  Her  voice  is  splendid, 
and  Professor  Hale  wanted  her  to  lead,  as  she  often 
does,  but  she  would  n't  sing  that,  she  said,  —  no,  not 
for  anything ;  and  though  we  all  begged,  she  refused, 
—  flat." 

"  Shocking !  what  total  depravity  !  I  wonder  is 
she  converting  Surrey  to  her  heresies." 

No,  she  was  n't ;  not  unless  silence  is  more  potent 
than  words ;  for  after  they  had  danced  together  Surrey 
brought  her  to  one  of  the  great  windows  facing  to- 
wards the  sea,  and,  leaning  over  her  chair,  there  was 
stillness  between  them  as  their  eyes  went  out  into  the 
niorht. 


What  Anszvcr?  47 

A  wild  night !  great  clouds  drifted  across  the  moon, 
which  shone  out  anon,  with  light  intensified,  defining 
the  stripped  trees  and  desolate  landscape,  and  then 
the  beach,  and 

'«  Marked  with  spray 
The  sunken  reefs,  and  far  away  ^ 
The  unquiet,  bright  Atlantic  plain," 

while  through  all  sounded  incessantly  the  mournfiil 
roar  of  buffeting  wind  and  surging  tide  ;  and  whether 
it  was  the  scene,  or  the  solemn  undertone  of  the  sea, 
the  dance  music,  which  a  Httle  while  before  had  been 
so  gav,  sounded  like  a  wail. 

How  could  it  be  other^vise?  Passion  is  akin  to  pain. 
Love  never  yet  penetrated  an  intense  nature  and 
made  the  heart  light;  sentiment  has  its  smiles,  its 
blushes,  its  brightness,  its  words  of  fancy  and  feehng, 
readily  and  at  will ;  but  when  the  internal  sub-soiling 
is  broken  up,  the  heart  swells  with  a  steady  and  tre- 
mendous pressure  till  the  breast  feels  like  bursting  ; 
the  lips  are  dumb,  or  open  only  to  speak  upon  indif- 
ferent themes.  Flowers  may  be  played  with,  but  one 
never  yet  cared  to  toy  with  flame.  ^ 

There  are  souls  that  are  created  for  one  another  in 
the  eternities,  hearts  that  are  predestined  each  to 
each,  from  the  absolute  necessities  of  their  nature; 
and  when  this  man  and  this  woman  come  face  to  face, 
these  hearts  throb  and  are  one  ;  these  souls  recognize 


48  IV/ia^  Answer? 

"  my  master  !  "  "  my  mistress  !  "  at  the  first  glance, 
without  words  uttered  or  vows  pronounced. 

These  two  young  hves,  so  fresh,  so  beautiful ;  these 
beings,  in  many  things  such  antipodes,  so  utterly  dis- 
similar in  person,  so  unlike,  yet  like ;  their  whole  ac- 
quaintance a  glance  on  a  crowded  street  and  these  few 
hours  of  meeting,  —  looked  into  one  another's  eyes, 
and  felt  their  whole  nature  set  each  to  each,  as  the 
vast  tide  "  of  the  bright,  rocking  ocean  sets  to  shore 
at  the  full  moon." 

These  things  are  possible.  Friendship  is  excellent, 
and  friendship  may  be  called  love ;  but  it  is  not  love. 
It  may  be  more  enduring  and  placidly  satisfying  in  the 
end  :  it  may  be  better,  and  wiser,  and  more  prudent, 
for  acquaintance  to  beget  esteem,  and  esteem  regard, 
and  regard  affection,  and  affection  an  interchange  of 
peaceful  vows  :  the  result,  a  well-ordered  life  and  home. 
All  this  is  admirable,  no  doubt ;  an  owl  is  a  bird  when 
you  can  get  no  other ;  but  the  love  born  of  a  moment, 
yet  born  of  eternity,  which  comes  but  once  in  a  life- 
time, and  to  not  one  in  a  thousand  lives,  unquestion- 
ing, unthinking,  investigating  nothing,  proving  nothing, 
sufficient  unto  itself,  —  ah,  that  is  divine;  and  this 
divine  ecstasy  filled  these  two  souls. 

Unconsciously.  They  did  not  define  nor  compre- 
hend. They  hstened  to  the  sea  where  they  sat,  and 
felt  tears  start  to  their  eyes,  yet  knew  not  why.     They 


What  Answer?  49 

were  silent,  and  thought  they  talked  ;  or  spoke,  and 
said  nothing.  They  danced ;  and  as  he  held  her  hand 
and  uttered  a  few  words,  almost  whispered,  the  words 
sounded  to  the  listening  ear  like  a  part  of  the  music  to 
which  they  kept  time.  They  saw  a  multitude  of  peo- 
ple, and  exchanged  the  compliments  of  the  evening, 
yet  these  people  made  no  more  impression  upon  their 
thoughts  than  gossamer  would  have  made  upon  their 
hands. 

"  Come,  Francesca ! "  said  Clara  Russell,  breaking 
in  upon  this,  ''it  is  not  fair  for  you  to  monopolize  my 
cousin  Will,  who  is  the  handsomest  man  in  the  room  ; 
and  it  is  n't  fair  for  Will  to  keep  you  all  to  himself 
in  this  fashion.  Here  is  Tom,  ready  to  scratch  out  his 
eyes  with  vexation  because  you  won't  dance  with  him ; 
and  here  am  I,  dying  to  waltz  with  somebody  who 
knows  my  step,  —  to  say  nothing  of  innumerable  young 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  have  been  casting  indignant 
and  beseeching  glances  this  way :  so,  sir,  face  about, 
march !  "  and  away  the  gay  girl  went  with  her  prize, 
leaving  Francesca  to  the  tender  mercies  of  half  a  dozen 
young  men  who  crowded  eagerly  round  her,  and  from 
whom  Tom  carried  her  off  with  triumph  and  rejoicing. 

The  evening  was  over  at  last,  and  they  were  going 
away.     Tom  had  said  good  night. 

"You  are  to  be  in  New  York,  at  my  uncle's,  Clara 
tells  me." 

3  ^ 


50  W/ia^  Answer f 

"  It  is  true." 

"  I  may  see  you  there  ? " 

For  answer  she  put  out  her  hand.  He  took  it  as  he 
would  have  taken  a  dehcate  flower,  laid  his  other  hand 
softly,  yet  closely,  over  it,  and,  without  any  adieu 
spoken,  went  away. 

"  Tom  always  declared  Willie  was  a  little  queer,  and 
I  'm  sure  I  begin  to  think  so,"  said  Clara,  as  she  kissed 
her  friend  and  departed  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER    V, 


'  A  breathing  sigh,  a  sigh  for  answer, 
A  little  talking  of  outward  things." 

Jean  Ingelow. 


AH,  the  weeks  that  follo^Yed  !  People  ate  and 
drank  and  slept,  lived  and  loved  and  hated, 
were  born  and  died,  —  the  same  world  that  it  had 
been  a  little  while  before,  yet  not  the  same  to  them,  — 
never  to  seem  quite  the  same  again.  A  little  cloud 
had  fallen  between  them  and  it,  and  changed  to  their 
eyes  all  its  proportions  and  hues. 

They  were  incessantly  together,  riding,  or  driving, 
or  walking,  looking  at  pictures,  dancing  at  parties, 
listening  to  opera  or  play. 

"  It  seems  to  me  Will  is  going  it  at  a  pretty  tremen- 
dous pace  somewhere,"  said  Mr.  Surrey  to  his  wife, 
one  morning,  after  this  had  endured  for  a  space.  "  It 
would  be  well  to  look  into  it,  and  to  know  something 
of  this  girl." 

"You  are  right,"  she  replied.  "Yet  I  have  such 
absolute  faith  in  Willie's  fine  taste  and  sense  that  I 
feel  no  anxiet}\'' 

"  Nor  I ;  yet  I  shall  investigate  a  bit  to-night  at 
Augusta's." 


52  What  Answer? 

"  Clara  tells  me  that  when  Miss  Ercildoune  under- 
stood it  was  to  be  a  great  party,  she  insisted  on  ending 
her  visit,  or,  at  least,  staying  for  a  while  with  her  aunt, 
but  they  would  not  hear  of  it." 

"  Mrs.  Lancaster  goes  back  to  England  soon  ? " 

"  Very  soon." 

"  Does  any  one  know  aught  of  Miss  Ercildoune's 
family  save  that  I\Irs.  Lancaster  is  her  aunt  ?" 

*'  If  '  any  one '  means  me,  I  understand  her  father 
to  be  a  gentleman  of  elegant  leisure,  —  his  home  near 
Philadelphia;  a  widower,  with  one  other  child, — a 
son,  I  believe ;  that  his  wife  was  English,  married 
abroad  ;  that  Mrs.  Lancaster  comes  here  with  the  best 
of  letters,  and,  for  herself,  is  most  evidently  a  lady." 

"  Good.  Now  I  shall  take  a  survey  of  the  young 
lady  herself" 

When  night  came,  and  with  it  a  crowd  to  Mrs. 
Russell's  rooms,  the  opportunity  offered  for  the  survey, 
and  it  was  made  scrutinizingly.  Surrey  was  an  only 
son,  a  well-beloved  one,  and  what  concerned  him  was 
investigated  with  utmost  care. 

Scrutinizingly  and  satisfactorily.  They  wtre.  dan- 
cing, his  sunny  head  bent  till  it  almost  touched  the 
silky  blackness  of  her  hair.  "  Saxon  and  Norman," 
said  somebody  near  who  was  watching  them  ;  "  what  a 
delicious  contrast !  " 

"They   make   an    exquisite   picture,"   thought   the 


What  Answer?  53 

mother,  as  she  looked  with  dehght  and  dread :  dehght 
at  the  beauty  ;  dread  that  fills  the  soul  of  any  mother 
when  she  feels  that  she  no  longer  holds  her  boy,  — 
that  his  life  has  another  keeper,  —  and  queries,  "  What 
of  the  keeper?" 

"  Well  ? "  she  said,  looking  up  at  her  husband. 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  with  a  tone  that  meant, 
well.  "  She  's  thorough-bred.  Democratic  or  not,  I 
will  always  insist,  blood  tells.  Look  at  her  :  no  one 
needs  to  ask  7v/io  she  is.  I  'd  take  her  on  trust  with- 
out a  word." 

"  So,  then,  you  are  not  her  critic,  but  her  admirer." 

"  Ah,  fny  dear,  criticism  is  lost  in  admiration,  and  I 
am  glad  to  find  it  so." 

"  And  I.  Willie  saw  with  our  eyes,  as  a  boy  ;  it  is 
fortunate  that  we  can  see  with  his  eyes,  as  a  man." 

So,  without  any  words  spoken,  after  that  night,  both 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Surrey  took  this  young  girl  into  their 
hearts  as  they  hoped  soon  to  take  her  into  their  lives, 
and  called  her  "  daughter"  in  their  thought,  as  a  pleas- 
ant preparation  for  the  uttered  word  by  and  by. 

Thus  the  weeks  fled.  No  word  had  passed  be- 
tween these  two  to  which  the  world  might  not  have 
listened.  Whatever  language  their  hearts  and  their 
eyes  spoke  had  not  been  interpreted  by  their  lips. 
He  had  not  yet  touched  her  hand  save  as  it  met  his, 
gloved  or  formal,  or  as  it  rested  on  his  arm ;  and  yet, 


54  What  Answer? 

as  one  walking  through  the  dusk  and  stillness  of  a  sum- 
mer night  feels  a  flower  or  falling  leaf  brush  his  cheek, 
and  starts,  shivering  as  from  the  touch  of  a  disem- 
bodied soul,  so  this  slight  outward  touch  thrilled  his 
inmost  being ;  this  hand,  meeting  his  for  an  instant, 
shook  his  soul. 

Indefinite  and  undefined,  —  there  w^as  no  thought 
beyond  the  moment ;  no  wish  to  take  this  young  girl 
into  his  arms  and  to  call  her  "  wife  "  had  shaped  itself 
in  his  brain.  It  was  enough  for  both  that  they  were 
in  one  another's  presence,  that  they  breathed  the  same 
air,  that  they  could  see  each  other  as  they  raised  their 
eyes,  and  exchange  a  word,  a  look,  a  smile.  What- 
ever storm  of  emotion  the  future  might  hold  for  them 
was  not  manifest  in  this  sunny  and  delightful  present. 

Upon  one  subject  alone  did  they  disagree  with  feel- 
ing, —  in  other  matters  their  very  dissimilarity  proving 
an  added  charm.  This  was  a  curious  question  to 
come  between  lovers.  All  his  life  Surrey  had  been 
a  devotee  of  his  country  and  its  flag.  While  he  was 
a  boy  Kossuth  had  come  to  these  shores,  and  he 
yet  remembered  how  he  had  cheered  himself  hoarse 
with  pride  and  delight,  as  the  eloquent  voice  and 
impassioned  lips  of  the  great  Magyar  sounded  the 
praise  of  America,  as  the  "  refuge  of  the  oppressed  atid 
the  hope  of  the  world."  He  yet  remembered  how 
when  the  hand,  every  gesture  of  which  was  instinct 


JV/iai  Answer?  55 

W'th  power,  was  lifted  to  the  flag,  —  the  flag,  stainless, 
spotless,  without  blemish  or  flaw;  the  flag  which 'was 
"  fair  as  the  sun,  clear  as  the  moon,"  and  to  the  op- 
pressors of  the  earth  "  terrible  as  an  army  with  ban- 
ners," —  he  yet  remembered  how,  as  this  emblem  of 
liberty  was  thus  apostrophized  and  saluted,  the  tears 
had  rushed  to  his  boyish  eyes,  and  his  voice  had  said 
for  his  heart,  "  Thank  God,  I  am  an  American  !  " 

One  day  he  made  some  such  remark  to  her.  She 
•answered,  "I,  too,  am  an  American,  but  I  do  not 
thank  God  for  it." 

At  another  time  he  said,  as  some  emigrants  passed 
them  in  the  street,  "  What  a  sense  of  pride  it  gives 
one  in  one's  country,  to  see  her  so  stretch  out  her 
arms  to  help  and  embrace  the  outcast  and  suffering  of 
the  whole  world  !  " 

She  smiled  —  bitterly,  he  thought  ;  and  replied, 
"  O  just  and  magnanimous  country,  to  feed  and 
clothe  the  stranger  from  without,  while  she  outrages 
and  destroys  her  children  within  !  " 

"  You  do  not  love  America,"  he  said. 

"  I  do  not  love  America,"  she  responded. 

"  And  yet  it  is  a  wonderful  country." 

"  Ay,"  briefly,  almost  satirically,  "  a  wonderful 
country,  indeed ! " 

"  Still  you  stay  here,  live  here." 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  country.     Whatever  I  think  of  it,  I 


56  W/iat  A?iswer? 

will  not  be  driven  away  from  it ;  it  is  my  right  to  re- 
main." 

*'  Her  right  to  remain  ? "  he  thought  ;  "  what  does 
she  mean  by  that  ?  she  speaks  as  though  conscience 
were  involved  in  the  thing.  No  matter ;  let  us  talk  of 
something  pleasanter." 

One  day  she  gave  him  a  clew.  They  were  looking 
at  the  picture  of  a  great  statesman,  —  a  man  as  famous 
for  the  grandeur  of  face  and  form  as  for  the  power 
and  splendor  of  his  intellect. 

"  Unequalled !  unapproachable  !  "  exclaimed  Surrey, 
at  last. 

"I  ha\e  seen  its  equal,"  she  answered,  very  quietly, 
yet  with  a  shiver  of  excitement  in  the  tones. 

"When?  where?  how?  I  will  take  a  journey  to 
look  at  him.     Who  is  he  ?  where  did  he  grow  ?  " 

For  response  she  put  her  hand  into  the  pocket  of 
her  gown,  and  took  out  a  velvet  case.  What  could 
there  be  in  that  little  blue  thing  to  cause  such  emo- 
tion ?  As  Surrey  saw  it  in  her  hand,  he  grew  hot,  then 
cold,  then  fier)^  hot  again.  In  an  instant  by  this  chill, 
this  heat,  this  pain,  his  heart  was  laid  bare  to  his  own 
inspection.  In  an  instant  he  knew  that  his  arms  would 
be  empty  did  they  hold  a  universe  in  which  Francesca 
Ercildoune  had  no  part,  and  that  wuth  her  head  on  his 
heart  the  world  might  lapse  from  him  unheeded  ;  and, 
with  this  knowledge,  she  held  tenderly  and  caressingly, 
as  he  saw,  another  man's  picture  in  her  hand. 


What  Answer  f  57 

His  own  so  shook  that  he  could  scarcely  take  the 
case  from  her,  to  open  it ;  but,  opened,  his  eyes  de- 
voured what  was  under  them. 

A  half-length,  —  the  face  and  physique  superb.  Of 
what  color  were  the  hair  and  eyes  the  neutral  tints  of 
the  picture  gave  no  hint ;  the  brow  princely,  breaking 
the  perfect  oval  of  the  face  ;  eyes  piercing  and  full  ; 
the  features  rounded,  yet  clearly  cut ;  the  mouth  with 
a  curious  combination  of  sadness  and  disdain.  The 
face  was  not  young,  yet  it  was  so  instinct  with  magnifi- 
cent vitality  that  even  the  picture  impressed  one  more 
powerfully  than  most  living  men,  and  one  involuntarily 
exclaimed  on  beholding  it,  "  This  man  can  never  grow 
old,  and  death  must  here  forego  its  claim  ! " 

Looking  up  from  it  ^vith  no  admiration  to  express 
for  the  face,  he  saw  Francesca's  smiling  on  it  with 
a  sort  of  adoration,  as  she,  reclaiming  her  property, 
said,  — 

"  My  father's  old  friends  have  a  great  deal  of  enjoy- 
ment, and  amusement  too,  from  his  beauty.  One  of 
them  was  the  other  day  telling  me  of  the  excessive  ad- 
miration people  had  always  shown,  and  laughingly 
insisted  that  when  papa  wa*^  a  young  man,  and  ap- 
peared in  public,  in  London  or  Paris,  it  was  between 
two  police  officers  to  keep  off  the  admiring  crowd ; 
and,"  laughing  a  gay  little  laugh  herself,  "  of  course  I 
believed  him  !  why  should  n't  I  ?  " 
3* 


58  VV/iat  Answer? 

He  was  looking  at  the  picture  again.  "What  an 
air  of  command  he  has  ! " 

"  Yes.  I  remember  hearing  that  when  Daniel  Web- 
ster was  in  London,  and  walked  unattended  through 
•the  streets,  the  coal-heavers  and  workmen  took  off 
their  hats  and  stood  bareheaded  till  he  had  gone  by, 
thinking  it  was  royalty  that  passed.  I  think  they 
would  do  the  same  for  papa." 

"  If  he  looks  like  a  king,  I  know  somebody  who 
looks  like  a  princess,"  thought  the  happy  young  fellow, 
gazing  down  upon  the  proud,  dainty  figure  by  his  side  \ 
but  he  smiled  as  he  said,  "  What  a  little  aristocrat  you 
are.  Miss  Ercildoune  !  what  a  pity  you  were  bom  a 
Yankee ! " 

"  I  am  not  a  Yankee,  Mr.  Surrey,"  replied  the  little 
aristocrat,  "  if  to  be  a  Yankee  is  to  be  a  native  of 
America.     I  was  born  on  the  sea." 

"  And  your  mother,  I  know,  was  English." 

"Yes,  she  was  Enghsh." 

"  Is  it  rude  to  ask  if  your  father  was  the  same  ? " 

"  No  ! "  she  answered  emphatically,  "  my  papa  is  a 
Virginian,  —  a  Virginia  gentleman,"  —  the  last  word 
spoken  with  an  untransferable  accent,  —  "  there  are 
few  enough  of  them." 

"  So,  so  !  "  thought  Willie,  "  here  my  riddle  is  read. 
Southern  —  Virginia — gentleman.  No  wonder  she 
has  no  love  to  spend  on  country  or  flag  ;  no  wonder 


What  Answer?  59 

we  could  n't  agree.  And  yet  it  can't  be  that,  —  what 
were  the  first  words  I  ever  heard  from  her  mouth  ? " 
and,  remembering  that  terrible  denunciation  of  the 
"  pecuhar  institution  "  of  Virginia  and  of  the  South, 
he  found  himself  puzzled  the  more. 

Just  then  there  came  into  the  picture-gallery,  where 
they  were  wasting  a  pleasant  morning,  a  young  man  to 
whom  Surrey  gave  the  slightest  of  recognitions,  — well- 
dressed,  booted,  and  gloved,  yet  lacking  the  nameless 
something  which  marks  the  gentleman.  His  glance, 
as  it  rested  on  Surrey,  held  no  love,  and,  indeed,  was 
rather  malignant. 

"  That  fellow,"  said  Surrey,  indicating  him,  "  has  a 
queer  story  connected  with  him.  He  was  discharged 
from  my  father's  employ  to  give  place  to  a  man  who 
could  do  his  work  better ;  and  the  strange  part  of 
it"  —  he  watched  her  with  an  amused  smile  to  see 
what  effect  the  announcement  would  have  upon  her 
Virginia  ladyship  —  "  is  that  number  two  is  a  black 
man." 

A  sudden  heat  flushed  her  cheeks  :  "  Do  you  tell 
me  your  father  made  room  for  a  black  man  in  his  em- 
ploy, and  at  the  expense  of  a  white  one  ? " 

"  It  is  even  so." 

"  Is  he  there  now  ?  " 

Surrey's  beautiful  Saxon  face  crimsoned.  "  No  :  he 
is  not,"  he  said  reluctantly. 


6o  What  Answer? 

"  Ah  !  did  he,  this  black  man,  —  did  he  not  do  his 
work  well  ? " 

"Admirably." 

"  Is  it  allowable,  then,  to  ask  why  he  was  dis- 
carded?" 

"  It  is  allowable,  surely.  He  was  dismissed  because 
the  choice  lay  between  him  and  seven  hundred  men." 

"  And  you  "  —  her  face  was  very  pale  now,  the  flush 
all  gone  out  of  it  —  "  you  have  nothing  to  do  with 
your  father's  works,  but  you  are  his  son,  —  did  you  do 
naught  ?  protest,  for  instance  ?  " 

"I  protested — and  yielded.  The  contest  would 
have  been  not  merely  with  seven  hundred  men,  but 
with  every  machinist  in  the  city.  Justice  versus  preju- 
dice, and  prejudice  had  it ;  as,  indeed,  I  suppose  it 
will  for  a  good  many  generations  to  come  :  invincible 
it  appears  to  be  in  the  American  mind." 

"  Invincible  !  is  it  so  ? "  She  paused  over  the  words, 
scrutinizing  him  meanwhile  with  an  unconscious  inten- 
sity. "  And  this  black  man,  —  what  of  him  ?  He  was 
flung  out  to  starve  and  die  ;  a  proper  fate,  surely,  for 
his  presumption.  Poor  fool  !  how  did  he  dare  to  think 
he  could  compete  with  his  masters  !  You  know  noth- 
ing of  /lim  ?  " 

Surely  he  must  be  mistaken.  "What  could  this  black 
man,  or  this  matter,  be  to  her  ?  yet  as  he  listened  her 
voice  sounded  to  his  ear  like  that  of  one  in  mortal 


What  Answer?  ^^ 

pain.     What  held  him  silent  ?   ^y  did  he  not  tell  her, 
why  did  he  not  in  some  way  make  her  comprehend, 
that  he,  delicate  exclusive,  and  patrician,  as  the  peo- 
ple of  his  set  thought  him,  had  gone  to  this  man,  had 
lifted  him  from  his  sorrow  and  despondency  to  courage 
and  hope  once  more  ;  had  found  him  work ;  would  see 
that  the  place  he  strove  to  fill  in  the  world  should  be 
filled,  could  any  help  of  his  secure  that  end.     Why  did 
the  modesty  which  was  a  part  of  him,  and  the  high- 
bred  reserve  which  shrank  from  letting  his  own  mother 
know  of  the  good  deeds  his  life  wrought,  hold  him 

silent  now  ? 

In  that  silence  something  fell  between  them.  What 
was  it?  But  a  moment,  yet  in  that  little  space  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though  continents  divided  them,  and 
seas  rolled  between.  "Francesca!"  he  cried,  under 
his  breath,  — he  had  never  before  called  her  by  her 
Christian  name,  -  "  Francesca ! "  and  stretched  out  his 
hand  towards  her,  as  a  drowning  man   stretches  forth 

his  hand  to  life. 

<'This  room  is  stifling!"  she  said  for  answer;  and 
her  voice,  dulled  and  unnatural,  seemed  to  his  strange- 
ly confused  senses  as  though  it  came  from-  a  far  dis- 
tance,—"  I  am   suffering:    shall  we  go   out   to  the 


air 


?» 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"  But  more  than  loss  about  me  clings." 

Je.aj4  Ingelow, 

*'  IV  T  O  !  no,  I  am  mad  to  think  it !  I  must  have 
■^  ^  been  dreaming  !  what  could  there  have  been 
in  that  talk  to  have  such  an  effect  as  I  have  conjured 
up  ?  She  pitied  Franklin  !  yes,  she  pities  every  one 
whom  she  thinks  suffering  or  ^^Tonged.  Dear  httle 
tender  heart !  of  course  it  was  the  room,  —  did  n't  she 
say  she  was  ill  ?  it  must  have  been  awful ;  the  heat 
and  the  closeness  got  into  my  head,  — that 's  it.  Bad 
air  is  as  bad  as  whiskey  on  a  man's  brain.  What  a 
fool  I  made  of  myself!  not  even  answering  her  ques- 
tions.    A\Tiat  did  she  think  of  me  ?     Well." 

Surrey  in  despair  pushed  away  the  book  over  which 
he  had  been  bending  all  the  afternoon,  seeing  for  every 
word  Francesca,  and  on  every  page  an  image  of  her 
face.  "I  '11  smoke  myself  into  some  sort  of  decent 
quiet,  before  I  go  up  town,  at  least " ;  and  taking  his 
huge  meerschaum,  settling  himself  sedately,  began  his 
quieting  operation  with  appalling  energy.  The  soft 
rings,  gray  and  delicate,  taking  curious  and  air)^  shapes, 
floated  out  and  filled  the  room ;   but  they  were    not 


IV/iat  Answer?  63 

soothing  shapes,  nor  ministering  spirits  of  comfort. 
They  seemed  filmy  garments,  and  from  their  midst  faces 
beautiful,  yet  faint  and  dim,  looked  at  him,  all  of  them 
like  unto  her  face ;  but  when  he  dropped  his  pipe  and 
bent  fonvard,  the  wreaths  of  smoke  fell  into  lines  that 
made  the  faces  appear  sad  and  bathed  in  tears,  and 
the  images  faded  from  his  sight. 

As  the  last  one,  with  its  visionary  arms  outstretched 
towards  him,  receded  from  him,  and  disappeared,  he 
thought,  "That  is  Francesca's  spirit,  bidding  me  an 
eternal  adieu"  —  and; with  the  foolish  thought,  in  spite 
of  its  foolishness,  he  shivered  and  stretched  out  his 
arms  in  return. 

"  Of  a  verity,"  he  then  cried,  "  if  nature  failed  to 
make  me  an  idiot,  I  am  doing  my  best  to  consummate 
that  end,  and  become  one  of  free  choice.  What  folly 
possesses  me  ?  I  will  dissipate  it  at  once,  —  I  will  see 
her  in  bodily  shape,  —  that  will  put  an  end  to  such 
fancies,"  —  starting  up,  and  beginning  to  pull  on  his 
gloves. 

"  No  !  no,  that  will  not  do,"  —  pulling  them  off  again. 
"  She  will  think  I  am  an  uneasy  ghost  that  pursues  her. 
I  must  wait  till  this  evening,  but  ah,  what  an  age 
till  evening ! " 

Fortunately,  all  ages,  even  lovers'  ages,  have  an  end. 
The  evening  came  ;  he  was  at  the  Fifth  Avenue,  —  his 
card  sent  up,  —  his  feet  impatiently  travelling  to  and 


64  What  Afiswer? 

fro  upon  the  parlor  carpet,  —  his  heart  beating  with 
happiness  and  expectancy.  A  shadow  darkened  the 
door  ;  he  flew  to  meet  the  substance,  —  not  a  sweet 
face  and  graceful  form,  but  a  servant,  big  and  common- 
place, bringing  him  his  own  card  and  the  announce- 
ment, "The  ladies  is  both  out,  sir." 

"  Impossible  !  take  it  up  again." 

He  said  "  impossible  "  because  Francesca  had  that 
morning  told  him  she  would  be  at  home  in  the  evening. 

"  All  right,  sir  ;  but  it 's  no  use,  for  there  's  nobody 
there,  I  know "  ;  and  he  vanished  for  a  second  at- 
tempt, unsuccessful  as  the  first.  Surrey  went  to  the 
office,  still  determinedly  incredulous. 

"  Are  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Miss  Ercildoune  not  in  ? " 

"  No,  sir  ;  both  out.  Keys  here,"  —  showing  them. 
"  Left  for  one  of  the  five-o'clock  trains  ;  rooms  not 
given  up ;  said  they  would  be  back  in  a  few  days." 

"  From  what  depot  did  they  leave  t  " 

"  Don't  know,  sir.  They  did  n't  go  in  the  coach ; 
had  a  carriage,  or  I  could  tell  you." 

"  But  they  left  a  note,  perhaps,  —  or  some  mes- 
sage ? " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  sir  ;  not  a  word,  nor  a  scrap.  Can 
I  serve  you  in  any  way  further  ? " 

"  Thanks  !  not  at  all.     Good  evening." 

"  Good  evening,  sir." 

That  was  all.     What  did  it  mean  ?  —  to  vanish  with- 


What  Answer?  65 

out  a  sign  !  an  engagement  for  the  evening,  and  not  a 
line  left  in  explanation  or  excuse !  It  was  not  like  her. 
There  must  be  something  wrong,  some  mystery.  He 
tormented  himself  with  a  thousand  fancies  and  fears 
over  what,  he  confessed,  was  probably  a  mere  acci- 
dent ;  wisely  determined  to  do  so  no  longer,  —  but 
did,  spite  of  such  excellent  resolutions  and  intent. 

This  took  place  on  the  evening  of  Saturday,  the 
13th  of  April,  186 1.  The  events  of  the  next  few 
days  doubtless  augmented  his  anxiety  and  unhappi 
ness.  Sunday  followed,  —  a  day  filled  not  with  a  Sab- 
bath calm,  but  with  the  stillness  felt  in  nature  before 
some  awful  convulsion  ;  the  silence  preceding  earth- 
quake, volcano,  or  blasting  storm ;  a  quiet  broken 
from  Maine  to  the  Pacific  slope  when  the  next  day 
shone,  and  men  roused  themselves  from  the  sleep  of  a 
night  to  the  duty  of  a  day,  from  the  sleep  of  genera- 
tions, fast  merging  into  death,  at  the  trumpet-call  to 
arms,  —  a  cry  which  sounded  through  every  State 
and  every  household  in  the  land,  which,  more  pow- 
erful than  the  old  songs  of  Percy  and  Douglas, 
"  brought  children  from  their  play,  and  old  men  from 
their  chimney-corners,"  to  emulate  humanity  in  its 
strength  and  prime,  and  contest  with  it  the  opportunity 
to  fight  and  die  in  a  deathless  cause. 

A  cry  which  said,  "There  are  wrongs  to  be  redressed 
already   long   enough  endured,  —  wrongs  against  the 


66  W/ia^  Answer? 

flag  of  the  nation,  against  the  integrity  of  the  Union, 
against  the  Hfe  of  the  repubhc ;  wrongs  against  the 
cause  of  order,  of  law,  of  good  government,  against 
right,  and  justice,  and  Hberty,  against  humanity  and 
the  world  ;  not  merely  in  the  present,  but  in  the  great 
future,  its  countless  ages  and  its  generations  yet  un- 
born." 

To  this  cry  there  sounded  one  universal  response, 
as  men  dropped  their  work  at  loom,  or  forge,  or  wheel, 
in  counting-room,  bank,  and  merchant's  store,  in  pul- 
pit, office,  or  platfomi,  and  with  one  accord  rushed  to 
arms,  to  save  these  rights  so  frightfully  and  arrogantly 
assailed. 

One  voice  that  went  to  swell  this  chorus  was  Sur- 
rey's ;  one  hand  quick  to  grasp  rifle  and  cartridge-box, 
one  soul  eager  to  fling  its  body  into  the  breach  at  this 
majestic  call,  was  his.  He  felt  to  the  full  all  the 
divine  frenzy  and  passion  of  those  first  days  of  the 
war,  days  unequalled  in  the  history  of  nations  and  of 
the  world.  All  the  elegant  dilettanteism,  the  delicious 
idleness,  the  luxurious  ease,  fell  away,  and  were  as 
though  they  had  never  been.  All  the  airy  dreams  of 
a  renewed  chivalrous  age,  of  courage,  of  heroism, 
of  sublime  daring  and  self-sacrifice,  took  substance 
and  shape,  and  were  for  him  no  longer  visions  of  the 
night,  but  realities  of  the  day. 

Still,  while  flags  waved,  drums  beat,  a,nd  cannon 


UVuzt  Answer?  6y 

thundered ;  while  friends  said,  "  Go  !  "  the  world  stood 
ready  to  cheer  him  on,  and  fame  and  honor  and 
greater  things  than  these  beckoned  him  to  come  ;  while 
he  felt  the  whirl  and  excitement  of  it  all,  —  his  heart 
cried  ceaselessly,  "  Only  let  me  see  her  —  once  —  if 
but  for  a  moment,  before  I  go  ! "  It  was  so  little  he 
asked  of  fate,  yet  too  much  to  be  granted. 

In  vain  he  went  every  day,  and  many  times  a  day, 
in  the  brief  space  left  him,  to  her  hotel.  In  vain  he 
once  more  questioned  clerk  and  servants ;  in  vain 
haunted  the  house  of  his  aunt,  with  the  dim  hope  that 
Clara  might  hear  from  her,  or  that  in  some  undefined 
way  he  might  learn  of  her  whereabouts,  and  so  accom- 
plish his  desire. 

But  the  days  passed,  too  slowly  for  the  ardent 
young  patriot,  all  too  rapidly  for  the  unhappy  lover. 
Friday  came.  Early  in  the  day  multitudes  of  people 
began  to  collect  in  the  street,  growing  in  numbers 
and  enthusiasm  as  the  hours  wore  on,  till,  in  the  after- 
noon, the  splendid  thoroughfare  of  New  York  from 
Fourth  Street  down  to  the  Cortlandt  Ferry  —  a  stretch 
of  miles  —  was  a  soHd  mass  of  humanity ;  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands,  doubled,  quadrupled,  and  mul- 
tiplied again. 

Through  the  morning  this  crowd  in  squads  and  com- 
panies traversed  the  streets,  collected  on  the  corners, 
congregating   chiefly  about   the  armory  of  their  pet 


68  What  Answer? 

regiment,  the  Seventh,  on  Lafayette  Square,  —  one 
great  mass  gazing  unweariedly  at  its  windows  and 
walls,  then  moving  on  to  be  replaced  by  another  of 
the  like  kind,  which,  having  gone  through  the  same 
performance,  gave  way  in  turn  to  yet  others,  eager  to 
take  its  place. 

So  the  fever  burned  ;  the  excitement  continued  and 
augmented  till,  towards  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
the  mighty  throng  stood  still,  and  waited.  It  was  no 
ordinary  multitude  ;  the  wealth,  refinement,  fashion, 
the  greatness  and  goodness  of  a  vast  city  were  there, 
pressed  close  against  its  coarser  and  darker  and 
homelier  elements.  Men  and  women  stood  alike  in 
the  crowd,  dainty  patrician  and -toil-stained  laborer, 
all  thrilled  by  a  common  emotion,  all  vivified  —  if  in 
unequal  degree -r- by  the  same  sublime  enthusiasm. 
Overhead,  from  every  window  and  doorway  and  house- 
top, in  every  space  and  spot  that  could  sustain  one,  on 
ropes,  on  staffs,  in  human  hands,  waved,  and  curled, 
and  floated,  flags  that  were  in  multitude  like  the  swells 
of  the  sea  ;  silk,  and  bunting,  and  painted  calico,  from 
the  great  banner  spreading  its  folds  with  an  indescrib- 
able majesty,  to  the  tiny  toy  shaken  in  a  baby  hand. 
Under  all  this  glad  and  gay  and  splendid  show,  the 
faces  seemed,  perhaps  by  contrast,  not  sad,  but  grave ; 
not  sorrowful,  but  intense,  and  luminously  solemn. 

Gradually  the  men  of  the  Seventh  marched  out  of 


What  Answer?  6g 

their  armory.  Hands  had  been  wrung,  adieus  said, 
last  fond  embraces  and  farewells  given.  The  regiment 
formed  in  the  open  square,  the  crowd  about  it  so 
dense  as  to  seem  stifling,  the  windows  of  its  building 
filled  with  the  sweetest  and  finest  and  fairest  of  faces, 
—  the  mothers,  wives,  and  sweethearts  of  these  young 
splendid  fellows  just  ready  to  march  away. 

Surrey  from  his  station  gazed  and  gazed  at  the  win- 
dow where  stood  his  mother,  so  well  beloved,  his  re- 
lations and  friends,  many  of  them  near  and  dear  to 
him, — some  *of  them  with  clear,  bright  eyes  that 
turned  from  the  forms  of  brothers  in  the  ranks  to  seek 
his,  and  hnger  upon  it  wistfully  and  tenderly ;  yet 
looking  at  all  these,  even  his  mother,  he  looked  be- 
yond, as  though  in  the  empty  space  a  face  would 
appear,  eyes  would  meet  his,  arms  be  stretched  to- 
wards him,  lips  whisper  a  fond  adieu,  as  he,  breaking 
from  the  ranks,  would  take  her  to  his  embrace,  and 
speak,  at  the  same  time,  his  love  and  farewell,  A 
fruitless  longing. 

Four  o'clock  struck  over  the  great  city,  and  the  line 
moved  out  of  the  square,  through  Fourth  Street,  to 
Broadway.  Then  began  a  march,  which  whoso  wit- 
nessed, though  but  a  little  child,  will  remember  to  his 
dying  day,  the  story  of  which  he  will  repeat  to  his  chil- 
dren, and  his  children's  children,  and,  these  dead,  it 
will  be  read  by  eyes  that  shall  shine  centuries  hence,  as 


70  What  Answer f 

one  of  the  most  memorable  scenes  in  the  great  strug- 
gle for  freedom. 

Hands  were  stretched  forth  to  touch  the  cloth  of 
their  uniforms,  and  kisstd  when  they  were  drawn 
back.  Mothers  held  up  their  little  children  to  gain 
inspiration  for  a  lifetime.  A  roar  of  voices,  continu- 
ous, unbroken,  rent  the  skies  ;  while,  through  the  deaf- 
ening cheers,  men  and  women,  with  eyes  blinded  by 
tears,  repeated,  a  miUion  times,  "  God  bless  —  God 
bless  and  keep  them  !  "  And  so,  down  the  magnificent 
avenue,  through  the  countless,  shouting  multitude, 
through  the  whirlwind  of  enthusiasm  and  adoration, 
under  the  glorious  sweep  of  flags,  the  grand  regiment 
moved  from  the  beginning  of  its  march  to  its  close, 
—  till  it  was  swept  away  towards  the  capital,  around 
which  were  soon  to  roll  such  bloody  waves  of  death. 

Meanwhile,  where  was  Miss  Ercildoune?  Surrey 
had  thought  her  behavior  strange  the  last  morning 
they  spent  together.  How  much  stranger,  how  un- 
accountable, indeed,  would  it  have  seemed  to  him, 
could  he  have  seen  her  through  the  afternoon  follow- 
ing! 

*'  What  is  wrong  with  you  ?  are  you  ill,  Francesca  ?  " 
her  aunt  had  inquired  as  she  came  in,  pulling  off  her 
hat  with  the  air  of  one  stifling,  and  throwing  herself 
into  a  chair. 

"  111 !    O    no  !  "  —  with    a   quick    laugh,  —  "  what 


W/iai  A^iswer?  71 

could  have  made  you  think  so  ?  I  am  quite  well, 
thank  you ;  but  I  will  go  to  my  room  for  a  little  while 
and  rest.     I  think  I  am  tired." 

"Do,  dear,  for  I  want  you  to  take  a  trip  up  the 
Hudson  this  afternoon.  I  have  to  see  some  English 
people  who  are  living  at  a  little  village  a  score  of 
miles  out  of  town,  and  then  I  must  go  on  to  Albany 
before  I  take  you  home.  It  will  be  pleasant  at  Tan- 
glewood  over  the  Sabbath,  —  unless  you  have  some  en- 
gagements to  keep  you  here  ? " 

"  O  Aunt  Alice,  how  glad  I  am  !  I  was  going 
home  this  afternoon  without  you.  I  thought  you 
would  come  when  you  were  ready ;  but  this  will  do 
just  as  well,  —  anything  to  get  out  of  town." 

"  Anything  to  get  out  of  town  ?  why,  Francesca,  is 
it  so  hateful  to  you  ?  '  Going  home  !  and  this  do  almost 
as  well ! '  —  what  does  the  child  mean  ?  is  she  the  least 
little  bit  mad  ?  I  'm  afraid  so.  She  evidently  needs 
some  fresh  country  air,  and  rest  from  excitement. 
Go,  dear,  and  take  your  nap,  and  refresh  yourself  be- 
fore five  o'clock  ;  that  is  the  time  we  leave." 

As  the  door  closed  between  them,  she  shook  her 
head  dubiously.  "  '  Going  home  this  afternoon  ! ' 
what  does  that  signify?  Has  she  been  quarrelling 
with  that  young  lover  of  hers,  or  refusing  him  ?  I 
should  not  care  to  ask  any  questions  till  she  herself 
speaks  ;  but  I  fear  me  something  is  wrong." 


72  W/iaf  Answer? 

She  would  not  have  feared,  but  been  certain,  could 
she  have  looked  then  and  there  into  the  next  room 
She  would  have  seen  that  the  trouble  was  something 
deeper  than  she  dreamed.  Francesca  was  sitting,  her 
hands  supporting  an  aching  head,  her  large  eyes 
fixed  mournfully  and  immovably  upon  something 
which  she  seemed  to  contemplate  with  a  relentless 
earnestness,  as  though  forcing  herself  to  a  distressing 
task.  What  was  this  something  ?  An  image,  a  shadow 
in  the  air,  which  she  had  not  evoked  from  the  empty 
atmosphere,  but  from  the  depths  of  her  own  nature 
and  soul,  —  the  life  and  fate  of  a  young  girl.  Her- 
self !  what  cause,  then,  for  mournful  scrutiny  ?  She, 
so  young,  so  brilliant,  so  beautiful,  upon  whom  fate 
had  so  kindly  smiled,  admired  by  many,  tenderly  and 
passionately  loved  by  at  least  one  heart,  —  surely  it 
was  a  delightful  picture  to  contemplate,  —  this  life 
and  its  future ;  a  picture  to  bring  smiles  to  the  lips, 
rather  than  tears  to  the  eyes. 

Though,  in  fact,  there  were  none  dimming  hers,  — 
hot,  dry  eyes,  full  of  fever  and  pain.  What  visions 
passed  before  them  ?  what  shadows  of  the  life  she  in- 
spected darkened  them  ?  what  sunshine  now  and  then 
fell  upon  it,  reflecting  itself  in  tbem,  as  she  leaned  for- 
ward to  scan  these  bright  spots,  holding  them  in  her 
gaze  after  other  and  gloomier  ones  had  taken  their 
places,  as  one  leans  forth  from  window  or  doorway  to 


What  Answer?  73 

behold,  long  as  possible,  the  vanishing  form  of  some 
dear  friend. 

Looking  at  these,  she  cried  out,  "  Fool  !  to  have 
been  so  happy,  and  not  to  have  known  what  the  happi- 
ness meant,  and  that  it  was  not  for  me,  —  never  for  me  ! 
to  have  walked  to  the  verge  of  an  abyss,  —  to  have 
plunged  in,  thinking  the  path  led  to  heaven.  Heaven 
for  me  !  ah,  —  I  forgot,  —  I  forgot.  I  let  an  uncon- 
scious bliss  seize  me,  possess  me,  exclude  memory 
and  thought,  —  lived  in  it  as  though  it  would  endure 
forever." 

She  got  up  and  moved  restlessly  to  and  fro  across 
the  room,  but  presently  came  back  to  the  seat  she  had 
abandoned,  and  to  the  inspection  which,  while  it  tor- 
tured her,  she  yet  evidently  compelled  herself  to 
pursue. 

"  Come,"  she  then  said,  "  let  us  ask  ourself  some 
questions,  constitute  ourself  confessor  and  penitent, 
and  see  what  the  result  will  prove." 

"  Did  you  think  fate  would  be  more  merciful  to  you 
than  to  others  ? " 

"  No,  I  thought  nothing  about  fate." 

"  Did  you  suppose  that  he  loved  you  sufficiently  to 
destroy  '  an  invincible  barrier '  ? " 

"  I  did  not  think  of  his  love.     I  remembered  no 
barrier.     I  only  knew  I  was  in  heaven,  and  cared  for 
naught  beyond." 
4 


74  What  Aftswer? 

"  Do  you  see  the  barrier  now  ?  " 

"I  do, —  I  do." 

"  Did  /le  help  you  to  behold  it ;  to  discover,  or  to 
remember  it  ?  did  he,  or  did  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  did.     Too  true,  —  he  did." 

"  Does  he  love  you  ? " 

"I  —  how  should  I  know  ?  his  looks,  his  acts  —  I 
never  thought  —  O  Willie,  Willie ! " — her  voice  going 
out  in  a  little  gasping  sob. 

"  Come,  —  none  of  that.  No  sentiment,  —  face  the 
facts.  Think  over  all  that  was  said,  every  word. 
Have  you  done  so  ?  " 

"  I  have,  —  every  word." 

"Well.?" 

"  Ah,  stop  torturing  me.  Do  not  ask  me  any  more 
questions.  I  am  going  away,  —  flying  like  a  coward. 
I  will  not  tempt  further  suffering.  And  yet  —  once 
more  —  only  once  ?  could  that  do  harm  ?  Ah,  God, 
my  God,  be  merciful ! "  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands 
and  lifting  them  above  her  bowed  head.  Then  re- 
membering, in  the  midst  of  her  anguish,  some  words 
she  had  been  reading  that  morning,  she  repeated  them 
with. a  bitter  emphasis,  —  "  What  can  \vringing  of  the 
hands  do,  that  which  is  ordained  to  alter  ? "  As  she 
did  so  she  tore  asunder  her  clasped  hands,  to  drop 
them  clinched  by  her  side,  —  tlie  gesture  of  despair 
substituted  for  that  of  hope. 


What  Answer?  75 

"  It  is  not  Heaven  I  am  to  besiege  !  "  she  exclaimed. 
"Will  I  never  learn  that?  Its  justice  cannot  overcome 
the  injustice  of  man.  My  God  !  "  she  cried  then,  with 
a  sudden,  terrible  energy,  "  our  punishment  should  be 
light,  our  rest  sure,  our  paradise  safe,  at  the  end,  since 
we  have  to  make  now  such  awful  atonement ;  since 
men  compel  us  to  endure  the  pangs  of  purgatory,  the 
tortures  of  hell,  here  upon  earth." 

After  that  she  sat  for  a  long  while  silent,  evidently 
revolving  a  thousand  thoughts  of  every  shape  and  hue, 
judging  from  the  myriads  of  lights  and  shadows  that 
flitted  over  her  face.  At  last,  rousing  herself,  she 
perceived  that  she  had  no  more  time  to  spend  in  this 
sorrowful  emplo}Tnent,  —  that  she  must  prepare  to  go 
away  from  him,  as  her  heart  said,  forever.  "  Forever  ! " 
it  repeated.  "  This,  then,  is  the  close  of  it  all,  —  the 
miserable  end ! "  With  that  thought  she  shut  her 
slender  hand,  and  struck  it  down  hard,  the  blood  al- 
most starting  from  the  driven  nails  and  bruised  flesh, 
unheeding ;  though  a  little  space  thereafter  she  smiled, 
beholding  it,  and  muttered,  "  So  —  the  drop  of  savage 
blood  is  telling  at  last !  " 

Presently  she  was  gone.  It  was  a  pleasant  spot  to 
which  her  aunt  took  her,  —  one  of  the  pretty  little  vil- 
lages scattered  up  and  down  the  long  sweep  of  the 
Hudson.  Pleasant  people  they  were  too,  —  these 
English  friends  of  Mrs.   Lancaster,  —  who  made  her 


y6  What  Afiswer? 

welcome,  but  did  not  intrude  upon  the  solitude  which 
they  saw  she  desired. 

Sabbath  morning  they  all  went  to  the  little  chapel, 
and  left  her,  as  she  wished,  alone.  Being  so  alone, 
after  hearing  their  adieus,  she  went  up  to  her  room 
and  sat  down  to  devote  herself  once  again  to  sorrowful 
contemplation,  —  not  because  she  would,  but  because 
she  must. 

Poor  girl !  the  bright  spring  sunshine  streamed  over 
her  where  she  sat ;  —  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  not  a 
dimming  of  mist  or  vapor  on  all  the  hills,  and  the 
broad  river-sweep  which,  placid  and  beautiful,  rolled 
along ;  the  cattle  far  off  on  the  brown  fields  rubbed 
their  silky  sides  softly  together,  and  gazed  through  the 
clear  atmosphere  with  a  lazy  content,  as  though  they 
saw  the  waving  of  green  grass,  and  heard  the  rustle  of 
wind  in  the  thick  boughs,  so  soon  to  bear  their  leafy 
burden.  Stillness  everywhere,  —  the  blessed  calm  that 
even  nature  seems  to  feel  on  a  sunny  Sabbath  morn. 
Stillness  scarcely  broken  by  the  voices,  mellowed  and 
softened  ere  they  reached  her  ear,  chanting  in  the 
village  church,  to  some  sweet  and  solemn  music,  words 
spoken  in  infinite  tenderness  long  ago,  and  which, 
through  all  the  centuries,  come  with  healing  balm  to 
many  a  sore  and  saddened  heart :  "  Come  unto  me," 
the  voices  sang,  —  "  come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor 
and  are  hea\'y  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 


What  Answer?  yy 

"  Ah,  rest,"  she  murmured  while  she  listened,  — 
"  rest "  ;  and  with  the  repetition  of  the  word  the  fever 
died  out  of  her  eyes,  leaving  them  filled  with  such  a 
look,  more  pitiful  than  any  tears,  as  would  have 
made  a  kind  heart  ache  even  to  look  at  them  ;  while 
her  figure,  alert  and  proud  no  longer,  bent  on  the  win- 
dow ledge  in  such  lonely  and  weary  fashion  that  a 
strong  arm  would  have  involuntarily  stretched  out  to 
shield  it  from  any  hardness  or  blow  that  might  threat- 
en, thoLidi  the  owner  thereof  were  a  strano^er. 

There  was  something  indescribably  appealing  and 
pathetic  in  her  whole  look  and  air.  Outside  the  win- 
dow stood  a  slender  little  bird  which  had  fluttered 
there,  spent  and  worn,  and  did  not  try  to  flit  away  any 
further.  Too  early  had  it  flown  from  its  southern 
abode ;  too  early  abandoned  the  warm  airs,  the  flowers 
and  leafage,  of  a  more  hospitable  region,  to  find  its  way 
to  a  northern  home  ;  too  early  ventured  into  a  rigor- 
ous clime  ;  and  now,  shivering,  faint,  near  to  death, 
drooped  its  wings  and  hung  its  weary  head,  waiting  for 
the  end  of  its  brief  life  to  come. 

Francesca,  looking  up  with  woful  eyes,  beheld  it, 
and,  opening  the  window,  softly  took  it  in.  "  Poor 
birdie ! "  she  whispered,  striving  to  warm  it  in  her  gentle 
hand  and  against  her  delicate  cheek, — "  poor  little  wan- 
derer !  —  didst  thou  think  to  find  thy  mate,  and  build 
thy  tiny  nest,  and  be  a  happy  mother  through  the  long 


78  What  Answer? 

bright  summer-time  ?     Ah,  my  pet,  what  a  sad  close  is 
this  to  all  these  pleasant  dreams  ! " 

The  frail  little  creature  could  not  eat  even  the  bits 
of  crumbs  which  she  put  into  its  mouth,  nor  taste  a 
drop  of  water.  All  her  soothing  caresses  failed  to 
bring  warmth  and  life  to  the  tiny  frame  that  presently 
stretched  itself  out,  dead,  —  all  its  sweet  songs  sung, 
its  brief,  bright  existence  ended  forever.  "  Ah,  my 
little  birdie,  it  is  all  over,"  whispered  Francesca,  as  she 
laid  it  softly  down,  and  unconsciously  lifted  her  hand 
to  her  own  head  with  a  self-pit}ung  gesture  that  was 
sorrowful  to  behold. 

"Like  me,"  she  did  not  say;  yet  a  penetrating 
eye  looking  at  them  —  the  slight  bird  lying  dead,  its 
brilliant  plumage  already  dimmed,  the  young  girl 
gazing  at  it  —  would  perceive  that  alike  these  two 
were  fitted  for  the  warmth  and  sunshine,  would  per- 
ceive that  both  had  been  thwarted  and  defrauded  of 
their  fair  inheritance,  would  perceive  that  one  lay 
spent  and  dead  in  its  early  spring.  What  of  the 
other  ? 

"  Aunt  Alice,"  said  Francesca  a  few  days  after  that, 
"  can  you  go  to  New  York  this  afternoon  or  to-morrow 
morning  ? " 

"  Certainly,  dear.  I  purposed  returning  to-day  or 
early  in  the  morning  to  see  the  Seventh  march  away. 
Of  course  you  would  like  to  be  there." 


What  Answer?  79 

"Yes."  She  spoke  slowly,  and  with  seeming  indif- 
ference. It  was  because  she  could  scarcely  control 
her  voice  to  speak  at  all.    "  I  should  like  to  be  there." 

Francesca  knew,  what  her  aunt  did  not,  that 
Surrey  was  a  member  of  the  Seventh,  and  that  he 
would  march  away  with  it  to  danger,  —  perhaps  to 
death. 

So  they  were  there,  in  a  window  overlooking  the 
great  avenue,  —  Mrs.  Lancaster,  foreigner  though  she 
was,  thrilled  to  the  heart's  core  by  the  magnificent  pa- 
geant j  Francesca  straining  her  eyes  up  the  long  street, 
through  the  vast  sea  of  faces,  to  fasten  them  upon  just 
one  face  that  she  knew  would  presently  appear  in  the 
throng. 

"  Ah,  heavens  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Lancaster,  "  what  a 
sight !  look  at  those  young  men ;  they  are  the  choice 
and  fine  of  the  city.  See,  see  !  there  is  Hunter,  and 
Winthrop,  and  Pursuivant,  and  Mortimer,  and  Shaw, 
and  Russell,  and,  yes  —  no  —  it  is,  over  there  —  your 
friend,  Surrey,  himself.     Did  you  know,  Francesca  ?  " 

Francesca  did  not  reply.  Mrs.  Lancaster  turned  to 
see  her  lying  white  and  cold  in  her  chair.  Endurance 
had  failed  at  last. 


CHAPTER    VII 


'The  plain,  unvarnished  tale  of  my  whole  course  of  love." 

Shakespeare. 


"TT  THAT   a  handsome   girl  that  is  who  always 

^  ■  waits  on  us  ! "  Francesca  had  once  said  to 
Clara  Russell,  as  they  came  out  of  Hyacinth's  with 
some  dainty  laces  in  their  hands. 

"  Very,"  Clara  had  answered. 

The  handsome  girl  was  Sallie. 

At  another  time  Francesca,  admiring  some  particu- 
lar specimen  of  the  pomps  and  vanities  with  which 
the  store  was  crowded,  was  about  carrj-ing  it  away,  but 
first  experimented  as  to  its  fit. 

"  O  dear  !  "  she  cried,  in  dismay,  "  it  is  too  short, 
and  "  —  rummaging  through  the  box  —  "  there  is  not 
another  like  it,  and  it  is  the  only  one  I  want." 

"  How  provoking  1 "  sympathized  Clara. 

"  I  could  ver)'  easily  alter  that,"  said  Sallie,  who  was 
behind  the  counter ;  "  I  make  these  up  for  the  shop,  and 
I  '11  be  glad  to  fix  this  for  you,  if  you  like  it  so  much." 

"  Thanks.  You  are  very  kind.  Can  you  send  it  up 
to-morrow  ? " 

"  This  evening,  if  you  wish  it" 


What  Answer?  8 1 

"  Very  good  ;  I  shall  be  your  debtor." 

"  Well ! "  exclaimed  Clara,  as  they  turned  away, 
"  this  is  the  first  time  in  all  my  shopping  I  ever  found 
a  girl  ready  to  put  herself  out  to  serve  one.  They 
usually  act  as  if  they  were  conferring  the  most  over- 
whelming favor  by  condescending  to  wait  upon  you  at 
all." 

"  "Why,  Clara,  I  'm  sure  I  always  find  them  civil." 

"  I  know  they  seem  devoted  to  you.  I  wonder  why. 
Oh  !  "  —  laughing  and  looking  at  her  friend  with  hon- 
est admiration,  — "  it  must  be  because  you  are  so 
pretty." 

"  Excellent,  —  how  discerning  you  are  !  "  smiled 
Francesca,  in  return. 

If  Clara  had  had  a  little  more  discernment,  she 
would  have  discovered  that  what  wrought  this  miracle 
was  a  friendly  courtesy,  that  never  failed  to  either 
equal  or  subordinate. 

Six  weeks  after  the  Seventh  had  marched  out  of 
New  York,  Francesca,  sitting  in  her  aunt's  room,  was 
roused  from  evidently  painful  thought  by  the  entrance 
of  a  servant,  who  announced,  "  If  you  please,  a  young 
woman  to  see  you." 

"Name?" 

"  She  gave  none,  miss." 

"  Send  her  up." 

Sallie  came  in.  "  Bird  of  Paradise  "  Francesca  had 
4*  F 


82  What  Answer? 

called  her  more  than  once,  she  was  so  dashing  and 
handsome ;  but  the  title  would  scarcely  fit  now,  for  she 
looked  poor,  and  sad,  and  wofully  dispirited. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Sallie,  is  it  you  ?     Good  morning." 

"  Good  morning.  Miss  Ercildoune."  She  stood,  and 
looked  as  though  she  had  something  important  to  say. 
Presently  Francesca  had  drawn  it  from  her,  —  a  little 
story  of  her  own  sorrows  and  troubles. 

"  The  reason  I  have  come  to  you,  Miss  Ercildoune, 
when  you  are  so  nearly  a  stranger,  is  because  you 
have  always  been  so  kind  and  pleasant  to  me  when  I 
waited  on  you  at  the  store,  and  I  thought  you  'd  any- 
way listen  to  what  I  have  to  say." 

"  Speak  on,  Sallie." 

"  I  've  been  at  Hyacmth's  now,  over  four  years,  ever 
since  I  left  school.  It 's  a  good  place,  and  they  paid 
me  well,  but  I  had  to  keep  two  people  out  of  it,  my 
little  brother  Frank  and  myself;  Frank  and  I  are 
orphans.  And  I  'm  very  fond  of  dress  ;  I  may  as  well 
confess  that  at  once.  So  the  consequence  is,  I 
have  n't  saved  a  cent  against  a  rainy  day.  "  Well," 
blushing  scarlet,  "I  had  a  lover,  —  the  best  heart  that 
ever  beat,  —  but  I  liked  to  flirt,  and  plague  him  a 
little,  and  make  him  jealous  ;  and  at  last  he  got  dread- 
fully so  about  a  young  gentleman,  —  a  Mr.  Snipe,  who 
was  very  attentive  to  me,  —  and  talked  to  me  about  it 
in  a  way  I  did  n't  like.    That  made  me  worse.    I  don't 


What  Anszver?  83 

know  what  possessed  me ;  but  after  that  I  went  out 
with  Mr.  Snipe  a  great  deal  more,  to  the  theatre  and 
the  like,  and  let  him  spend  his  money  on  me,  and  get 
things  for  me,  as  freely  as  he  chose.  I  did  n't  mean 
any  harm,  indeed  I  did  n't,  —  but  I  liked  to  go  about 
and  have  a  good  time ;  and  then  it  made  Jim  show 
how  much  he  cared  for  me,  which,  you  see,  was  a 
great  thing  to  me  ;  and  so  this  went  on  for  a  while,  till 
Jim  gave  me  a  real  lecture,  and  I  got  angry  and 
would  n't  listen  to  anything  he  had  to  say,  and  sent 
him  away  in  a  huff  "  —  here  she  choked  —  "  to  fight ; 
to  the  war ;  and  O  dear !  O  dear ! "  breaking  down 
utterly,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  shawl,  "  he  '11  be 
killed,  —  I  know  he  will ;  and  oh !  what  shall  I  do  ? 
My  heart  will  break,  I  am  sure." 

Francesca  came  and  stood  by  her  side,  put  her 
hand  gently  on  her  shoulder,  and  stroked  her  beautiful 
hair.  "  Poor  girl ! "  she  said,  softly,  "  poor  girl !  " 
and  then,  so  low  that  even  Sallie  could  not  hear, 
"  You  suffer,  too  :  'do  we  all  suffer,  then  ?  " 

Presently  Sallie  looked  up,  and  continued  :  "  Up  to 
that  time,  Mr.  Snipe  had  n't  said  anything  to  me,  ex- 
cept that  he  admired  me  very  much,  and  that  I  was 
pretty,  too  pretty  to  work  so  hard,  and  that  I  ought  to 
live  like  a  lady,  and  a  good  deal  more  of  that  kind  of 
talk  that  I  was  silly  enough  to  listen  to ;  but  when  he 
found  Jim  was  gone,   first,  he  inade  fun  of  him  for 


84  What  Answer? 

*  being  such  a  great  fool  as  to  go  and  be  shot  at  for 
nothing,'  and  then  he  —  O  Miss  Ercildoune,  I  can't 
tell  you  what  he  said ;  it  makes  me  choke  just  to 
think  oi  it.  How  dared  he  ?  what  had  I  done  that  he 
should  believe  me  such  a  thing  as  that  ?  I  don't  know 
what  words  I  used  when  I  did  find  them,  and  I  don't 
care,  but  they  must  have  stung.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
he  looked,  but  it  was  dreadful  ;  and  he  said,  '  I  '11 
bring  down  that  proud  spirit  of  yours  yet,  my  lady. 
I  'm  not  through  with  you,  —  don't  think  it,  —  not  by  a 
good  deal ' ;  and  then  he  made  me  a  fine  bow,  and 
laughed,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"  The  next  day  Mr.  Dodd  —  that 's  one  of  our  firm 
—  gave  me  a  week's  notice  to  quit :  '  work  was  slack,' 
he  said,  '  and  they  did  n't  want  so  many  girls.'  But 
I  'm  just  as  sure  as  sure  can  be  that  Mr.  Snipe 's  at  the 
bottom  of  it,  for  I  've  been  at  the  store,  as  I  told  you, 
four  years  and  more,  and  they  always  reckoned  me 
one  of  their  best  hands,  and  Mr.  Dodd  and  Mr.  Snipe 
are  great  friends.  Since  then  I  've  done  nothing  but 
try  to  get  work.  I  must  have  been  into  a  thousand 
stores,  but  it's  true  work  is  slack  ;  there  's  not  a  thing 
been  doing  since  the  war  commenced,  and  I  can't  get 
any  place.  I  've  been  to  Miss  Russell  and  some  of 
the  ladies  who  used  to  come  to  the  store,  to  see 
if  they  'd  give  me  some  fine  sewing ;  but  they  had  n't 
any  for  me,  and  I  don't  know  what  in  the  world  to  do, 


Wkat  Answer?  85 

for  I  understand  nothing  very  well  but  to  sew,  and  to 
stand  in  a  store.  I  've  spent  all  my  money,  what 
little  I  had,  and  —  and  —  I  've  even  sold  some  of  my 
clothes,  and  I  can't  go  on  this  way  much  longer.  I 
have  n't  a  relative  in  the  world  ;  nor  a  home,  except  in 
a  boarding-house ;  and  the  girls  I  know  all  treat  me 
cool,  as  though  I  had  done  something  bad,  because 
I  've  lost  my  place,  I  suppose,  and  am  poor. 

"  All  along,  at  times,  Mr.  Snipe  has  been  sending 
me  things,  —  bouquets,  and  baskets  of  fruit,  and  some- 
times a  note,  and,  though  I  won't  speak  to  him  when 
I  meet  him  on  the  street,  he  always  smiles  and  bows 
as  if  he  were  intimate ;  and  last  night,  when  I  was 
coming  home,  tired  enough  from  my  long  search,  he 
passed  me  and  said,  with  such  a  look,  '  You  've  gone 
down  a  peg  or  two,  have  n't  you,  Sallie  ?  Come,  I 
guess  we  '11  be  friends  again  before  long.'  You  think 
it 's  queer  I  'm  telling  you  all  this.  I  can't  help  it ; 
there  's  something  about  you  that  draws  it  all  out  of 
me.  I  came  to  ask  you  for  work,  and  here  I  've  been 
talking  all  this  while  about  myself  You  must  excuse 
me  ;  I  don't  think  I  would  have  said  so  much,  if  you 
had  n't  looked  so  kind  and  so  interested  "  ;  and  so  she 
had,  —  kind  as  kind  could  be,  and  interested  as  though 
the  girl  who  talked  had  been  her  own  sister. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,  Sallie,  and  glad  that  you 
told  me  all  this,  if  it  has  been  any  relief  to  you.    You 


S6  What  Answer? 

may  be  sure  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you,  but  I  am 
afraid  that  will  not  be  a  great  deal,  here  ;  for  I  am 
a  stranger  in  New  York,  and  know  very  few  people. 
Perhaps  —     Would  you  go  away  from  here  ?  " 

"  Would  I  ?  —  O  would  n't  I  ?  and  be  glad  of  the 
chance.  I  'd  give  an}1;hing  to  go  where  I  could  n't 
get  sight  or  sound  of  that  horrid  Snipe.  Can't  I  go 
with  you,  Miss  Ercildoune  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  counter  behind  which  to  station  you," 
said  Francesca,  smiling. 

"  No,  I  know,  —  of  course  ;  but"  —  looking  at  the 
daintily  arrayed  figure  —  "  you  have  plent}^  of  elegant 
things  to  make,  and  I  can  do  pretty  much  anything 
with  my  needle,  if  you  'd  like  to  trust  me  with  some 
work.  And  then  —  I  'm  ashamed  to  ask  so  much  of 
you,  but  a  few  words  from  you  to  your  friends,  I  'm 
sure,  would  send  me  all  that  I  could  do,  and  more." 

"  You  think  so  ? "  Miss  Ercildoune  inquired,  with  a 
curious  intonation  to  her  voice,  and  the  strangest  ex- 
pression darkening  her  face.  "  Very  well,  it  shall  be 
tried." 

Sallie  was  nonplussed  by  the  tone  and  look,  but  she 
comprehended  the  closing  words  fully  and  with  delight. 
"  You  will  take  me  with  you,"  she  cried.  "  O,  how 
good,  how  kind  you  are  !  how  shall  I  ever  be  able  to 
thank  you  ? " 

"  Don't  thank  me  at  all,"  said  Miss  Ercildoune,  "  at 


What  Answer?  8/ 

least  not  now.     Wait  till  I  have  done  something  to 
desen-e  your  gratitude." 

But  Sallie  was  not  to  be  silenced  in  any  such 
fashion,  and  said  her  say  with  warmth  and  meaning ; 
then,  after  some  further  talk  about  time  and  plans, 
went  away  carrying  a  bit  of  work  which  Miss  Ercil- 
doune  had  found,  or  made,  for  her,  and  for  which  she 
had  paid  in  advance. 

"God  bless  her!"  thought  Sallie  ;  "how  nice  and 
how  thoughtful  she  is  !  Most  ladies,  if  they  'd  done 
anything  for  me,  would  have  given  me  some  money 
and  made  a  beggar  of  me,  and  I  should  have  felt  as 
mean  as  dish-water.  But  now"  —  she  patted  her  lit- 
tle bundle  and  walked  down  the  street,  elated  and 
happy. 

Francesca  watched  her  out  of  the  door  with  eyes 
that  presently  filled  with  tears.  "  Poor  girl ! "  she 
whispered ;  "  poor  Sallie  !  her  lover  has  gone  to  the 
wars  with  a  shadow  bet^veen  them.  Ah,  that  must 
not  be ;  I  must  try  to  bring  them  together  again,  if 
he  loves  her  dearly  and  truly.  He  might  die,"  —  she 
shuddered  at  that,  —  "  die,  as  other  men  die,  in  the 
heat  and  flame  of  battle.  My  God  !  my  God  !  how 
shall  I  bear  it  ?  Dead  !  and  without  a  word  !  Gone, 
and  he  will  never  know  how  well  I  love  him !  O  Wil- 
lie, Willie !  my  life,  my  love,  my  darling,  come  back, 
come  back  to  me." 


88  IV/iat  Answer? 

Vain  cry  !  —  he  cannot  hear.  Vain  lifting  of  an 
agonized  face,  beautiful  in  its  agony  !  —  he  cannot  see. 
Vain  stretching  forth  of  longing  hands  and  empty 
arms !  —  he  is  not  there  to  take  them  to  his  embrace. 
Carry  thy  burden  as  others  have  carried  it  before 
thee,  and  learn  what  multitudes,  in  times  past  and  in 
time  present,  have  learned,  —  the  lesson  of  endurance 
when  happiness  is  denied,  and  of  patience  and  silence 
when  joy  has  been  withheld.  Go  thou  thy  way,  sor- 
rowful and  suffering  soul,  alone ;  and  if  thy  own 
heart  bleeds,  strive  thou  to  soothe  its  pangs,  by  medi- 
cining  the  wounds  and  healing  the  hurts  of  another. 

A  few  days  thereafter,  when  Miss  Ercildoune  went 
over  to  Philadelphia,  Sallie  and  Frank  bore  her  com- 
pany. She  had  become  as  thoroughly  interested  in 
them  as  though  she  had  known  and  cared  for  them 
for  a  long  while ;  and  as  she  was  one  who  was 
incapable  of  doing  in  an  imperfect  or  partial  way 
aught  she  attempted,  and  whose  friendship  never 
stopped  short  with  pleasant  sounding  words,  this  in- 
terest had  already  bloomed  beautifully,  and  was  fast 
ripening  into  solid  fruit. 

She  had  \\Titten  in  advance  to  desire  that  certain 
preparations  should  be  made  for  \v&r proteges , — prepara 
tions  which  had  been  faithfully  attended  to ;  and  thus, 
reaching  a  strange  cit}^,  they  felt  themselves  not  stran- 
gers, since  they  had  a  home  ready  to  receive  them,  and 
this  excellent  friend  bv  their  side. 


W/iat  Answer  f  89 

The  home  consisted  of  t^vo  rooms,  neat,  cheerful, 
high  up,  —  "the  airier  and  healthier  for  that,"  as 
Sallie  decided  when  she  saw  them. 

"  I  believe  ever)1:hing  is  in  order,"  said  the  good- 
natured-looking  old  lady,  the  mistress  of  the  establish- 
ment. "  My  lodgers  are  all  gentlemen  who  take  their 
meals  out,  and  I  shall  be  glad  of  some  company.  Any 
one  whom  Friend  Comstock  recommends  will  be  all 
right,  I  know." 

As  Mrs.  Healey's  st}'le  of  designation  indicated, 
Friend  Comstock  was  a  Quakeress,  well  known,  greatly 
esteemed,  an  old  friend  of  Miss  Ercildoune,  and  of 
Miss  Ercildoune's  father.  She  it  was  to  whom  Fran- 
cesca  had  written,  and  who  had  found  this  domicile 
for  the  wanderers,  and  who  at  the  outset  furnished 
Sallie  with  an  abundance  of  fine  and  dainty  sewing. 
Indeed,  without  giving  the  matter  special  thought,  she 
was  surprised  to  discover  that,  with  one  or  t\vo  excep- 
tions, the  people  Miss  Ercildoune  sent  her  were  of  the 
peaceful  and  quiet  sect.  This  bird  of  brilliant  plu- 
mage seemed  ill  assorted  with  the  sober-hued  flock. 

She  found  in  this  same  bird  a  helper  in  more  ways 
than  one.  It  was  not  alone  that  she  gave  her  employ- 
ment and  paid  her  well,  nor  that  she  sent  her  others 
able  and  willing  to  do  the  same.  She  found  Frankie 
a  good  school,  and  saw  him  properly  installed.  She 
never  came  to  them  empty-handed  ;  through  the  long, 


90  What  Answer? 

hot  summer-time  she  brought  them  fruit  and  flowers 
from  her  home  out  of  town  ;  and  when  she  came  not 
herself,  if  the  carriage  was  in  the  city  it  stopped  with 
these  same  delightful  burdens.  Sallie  declared  her  an 
angel,  and  Frank,  with  his  mouth  stuffed  full,  stood 
ready  to  echo  the  assertion. 

So  the  heated  term  wore  away,  —  before  it  ended, 
telling  heavily  on  Sallie.  Her  anxiet}'  about  Jim,  her 
close  confinement  and  constant  work,  the  fever  every- 
where in  the  spiritual  air  through  that  first  terrible 
summer  of  the  war,  bore  her  down. 

"  You  need  rest,"  said  Miss  Ercildoune  to  her  one 
day,  looking  at  her  with  kindly  solicitude,  —  "  rest,  and 
change,  and  fresh  air,  and  freedom  from  care.  I  can't 
give  you  the  last,  but  I  can  the  first  if  you  will  accept 
them.     You  need  some  country  living." 

"  O  Miss  Ercildoune,  will  you  let  me  do  your 
work  at  your  own  home  ?  I  know  it  would  do  me 
good  just  to  be  under  the  same  roof  with  you,  and  then 
I  should  have  all  the  things  you  speak  of  combined 
and  another  one  added.     If  you  only  will !  " 

This  was  not  the  plan  Francesca  had  proposed  to 
herself.  She  had  intended  sending  Sallie  away  to  some 
pleasant  countr}^  or  seaside  place,  till  she  was  refreshed 
and  ready  to  come  to  her  work  once  more.  Sallie 
did  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  expression  of  the 
face  that  watched  her,  nor  of  the  exclamation,  "  Why 


What  Answer?  91 

not?  let  me  try  her."  But  she  had  not  long  to  con- 
sider, for  Miss  Ercildoune  added,  "  Be  it  so.  I  will 
send  in  for  you  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  stay  till  you 
are  better  and  stronger,  or  —  till  you  please  to  come 
home,"  —  the  last  words  spoken  in  a  bitter  and  sor- 
rowful tone. 

The  next  day  Sallie  found  her  way  to  the  superb 
home  of  her  employer.  Superb  it  was,  in  ever^^  sense. 
Never  before  had  she  been  in  such  a  delightful  re- 
gion, never  before  realized  how  absolutely  perfect 
breeding  sets  at  ease  all  who  come  within  the  charm 
of  its  magic  sphere,  —  employed,  acquaintance,  or 
friend. 

There  was  a  shadow,  however,  in  this  house,  —  a 
shadow,  the  premonition  of  which  she  had  seen  more 
than  once  on  the  face  of  its  mistress  ere  she  ever  beheld 
her  home ;  a  shadow  to  which,  for  a  few  days,  she  had  no 
clew,  but  which  was  suddenly  explained  by  the  arrival 
of  the  master  of  this  beautiful  habitation ;  a  shadow 
from  which  most  people  would  have  fled  as  from  the 
breath  of  a  pestilence,  or  the  shade  of  the  tomb  ;  nay, 
one  from  which,  but  a  few  short  months  before,  Sallie 
herself  would  have  sped  with  feet  from  wliich  she  would 
have  shaken  the  y^ry  dust  of  the  threshold  when  she 
was  beyond  its  doors,  —  but  not  now.  Now,  as  she 
beheld  it,  she  sat  still  to  survey  it,  with  surprise  that 
deepened  into  indignation  and  compassion,  that  many 


92  What  Answer  f 

a  time  filled  her  eyes  with  tears,  and  brought  an  added 
expression  of  respect  to  her  voice  when  she  spoke  to 
these  people  who  seemed  to  have  all  the  good  things 
that  this  world  can  offer,  upon  whom  fortune  had  ex- 
pended her  treasures,  yet  — 

Whatever  it  was,  Sallie  came  from  that  home  with 
many  an  old  senseless  prejudice  destroyed  forever,  with 
a  new  thought  implanted  in  her  soul,  the  blossoming 
of  which  was  a  noxious  vapor  in  the  nostrils  of  some 
who  were  compelled  to  inhale  it,  but  as  a  sweet-smell- 
ing savor  to  more  than  one  wear}^  wayfarer,  and 
to  that  God  to  whom  the  darkness  and  the  light  are 
alike,  and  who,  we  are  told  by  His  own  word,  is  no 
respecter  of  persons. 

"  Poor,  dear  Miss  Ercildoune ! "  half  sobbed,  half 
scolded  Sallie,  as  she  sat  at  her  work,  blooming  and, 
fresh,  the  day  after  her  return.  "  What  a  tangled 
thread  it  is,  to  be  sure,"  jerking  at  her  knotty  needle- 
ful. "  Well,  I  know  what  I  '11  do,  —  I  '11  treat  her  as 
if  she  was  a  queen  born  and  crowned,  just  so  long  as 
I  have  anything  to  do  with  her,  —  so  I  will."  And 
she  did. 


I 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

"  For  hearts  of  truest  mettle 
Absence  doth  join,  and  time  doth  settle." 

Anonymous. 

T  were  a  vain  endeavor  to  attempt  the  telling  of 
what  filled  the  heart  and  soul  of  Surrey,  as  he 
marched  away  that  day  from  New  York,  and  through 
the  days  and  weeks  and  months  that  followed.     Fired 
by  a  sublime  enthusiasm  for  his  country ;  thirsting  to 
drink  of  any  cup  her  hand  might  present,  that  thus  he 
might  display  his  absolute  devotion  to  her  cause  ;  burn- 
ing with  indignation  at  the  wrongs  she  had  suffered ; 
thrilled  with  an  adoring  love  for  the  idea  she  embod- 
ied ;  eager  to  make  manifest  this  love  at  whatever  cost 
of  pain  and  sorrow  and  suffering  to  himself,  —through 
all  this  the  man  never  once  was  steeped  in  forgetful- 
ness  in  the  soldier  ;  the  divine  passion  of  patriotism 
never  once  dulled  the  ache,  or  satisfied  the  desire,  or 
answered  the  prayer,  or  filled  the  longing  heart,  that 
through  the  day  marches  and  the  night  watches  cried, 
and  would  not  be  appeased,  for  his  darling. 

"  Surely,"  he  thought  as  he  went  down  Broadway, 
as  he  reflected,  as  he  considered  the  matter  a  thousand 
times  thereafter,  — "surely  I  was  a  fool  not  to  have 


94  W/iat  Attswer? 

spoken  to  her  then  ;  not  to  have  seen  her,  have  de- 
vised, have  forced  some  way  to  reach  her  ;  not  to 
have  met  her  face  to  face,  and  told  her  all  the  love 
with  which  she  had  filled  my  heart  and  possessed  my 
soul.  And  then  to  have  been  such  a  coward  when  I 
did  Avrite  to  her,  to  have  so  said  a  say  which  was  noth- 
ing "  ;  and  he  groaned  impatiently  as  he  thought  of 
the  scene  in  his  room  and  the  letter  which  was  its  final 
result 

How  he  had  written  once,  and  again,  and  yet 
again,  letters  short  and  long,  letters  short  and  burn- 
ing, or  lengthy  and  filled  almost  to  the  final  line 
with  delicate  fancies  and  air}-  sentiment,  ere  he  ven- 
tured to  tell  that  of  which  all  this  was  but  the  pre- 
lude ;  how,  at  the  conclusion  of  each  attempt,  he  had 
watched  these  luminous  effusions  blaze  and  bum  as 
he  regularly  committed  them  to  the  flames  ;  how  he 
found  it  difficult  to  decide  which  he  enjoyed  the  most, 
—  writing  them  out,  or  seeing  them  burn  ;  how  at  last 
he  had  put  upon  paper  some  such  words  as  these  :  — 

"  After  these  delightful  weeks  and  months  of  inter- 
course, I  am  to  go  away  from  you,  then,  without  a 
single  word  of  parting,  or  a  solitary  sentence  of  adieu. 
Need  I  tell  you  how  this  pains  me  ?  I  have  in  vain 
besieged  the  house  that  has  held  you  ;  in  vain  made  a 
thousand  inquiries,  a  thousand  efforts  to  discover  your 
retreat  and  to  reach  your  side,  that  I  might  once  more 


W/iat  Answer  f  95 

see  your  face  and  take  your  hand  ere  I  went  from  the 
sight  and  touch  of  both,  perchance  forever.  This  I  find 
may  not  be.  The  hour  strikes,  and  in  a  little  space  I 
shall  march  away  from  the  cit}^  to  which  my  heart  clings 
with  infinite  fondness,  since  it  is  filled  with  associa- 
tions of  you.  I  have  again  and  again  striven  to  write 
that  which  will  be  worthy  the  eyes  that  are  to  read, 
and  striven  in  vain.  'T  is  a  fine  art  to  which  I  do  not 
pretend.  Then,  in  homely  phrase,  good  by.  Give 
me  thy  spiritual  hand,  and  keep  me,  if  thou  wilt,  in 
thy  gentle  remembrance.  Adieu !  a  kind  adieu,  my 
friend ;  may  the  brighter  stars  smile  on  thee,  and  the 
better  angels  guard  thy  footsteps  wherever  thou  mayst 
wander,  keep  thy  heart  and  spirit  bright,  and  let  thy 
thoughts  turn  kindly  back  to  me,  I  pray,  very,  very  of- 
ten.    And  so,  once  more,  farewell." 

Remembering  all  this,  thinking  what  he  would  do 
and  say  were  the  doing  and  saying  yet  possible  in  an 
untried  future,  the  time  sped  by.  He  waited  and 
waited  in  vain.  He  looked,  yet  was  gratified  by  no 
sight  for  which  his  eyes  longed.  He  hoped,  till  hope 
gave  place  to  despondency  and  almost  despair :  not  a 
word  came  to  him,  not  a  line  of  answer  or  remem- 
brance. This  long  silence  was  all  the  more  intolera- 
ble, since  the  time  that  intervened  did  but  the  more 
vividly  stamp  upon  his  memor}^  the  delights  of  the 
past,  and  color  with  softer  and  more  exquisite  tints 


g6  What  Answer? 

the  recollection  of  vanished  hours,  —  hours  spent  in 
galloping  gayly  by  her  side  in  the  early  morning,  or 
idly  and  deliciously  lounged  away  in  picture-galleries 
or  concert-rooms,  or  in  a  conversation  carried  on  in 
some  curious  and  subtle  shape  between  t^vo  hearts  and 
spirits  with  the  help  of  very  few  uttered  words  ;  hours 
in  which  he  had  whirled  her  through  many  a  fairy 
maze  and  turn  of  captivating  dance-music,  or  in  some 
less  heated  and  crowded  room,  or  cool  conservatory, 
listened  to  the  voice  of  the  siren  who  walked  by  his 
side,  "while  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  flowers 
and  make  no  noise,"  and  the  strains  of  "flute,  violin, 
bassoon,"  and  the  sounds  of  the  "dancers  dancing  in 
tune,"  coming  to  them  on  the  still  air  of  night,  seemed 
like  the  sounds  from  another  and  a  far-off  world,  — 
listened,  listened,  listened,  while  his  silver-tongued 
enchantress  builded  castles  in  the  air,  or  beguiled 
his  thought,  enthralled  his  heart,  his  soul  and  fancy, 
through  many  a  golden  hour. 

Thinking  of  all  this,  his  heart  well  found  expression 
for  its  feelings  in  the  half-pleasing,  half-sorrowful  lines 
which  almost  unconsciously  repeated  themselves  again 
and  again  in  his  brain  :  — 

"  Still  o'er  those  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ; 
Time  but  the  impression  deeper  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear." 


IV/ia^  Aftswer?  97 

Thinking  of  all  this,  he  took  comfort  in  spite  of  his 
trouble.  "  Perhaps,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  he  was  mis- 
taken. Perhaps "  —  O  happy  thought !  —  "it  was  but 
make-believe  displeasure  which  had  so  tortured  him. 
Perhaps  —  yes,  he  would  believe  it  —  she  had  never 
received  his  letter ;  they  had  been  careless,  they  had 
failed  to  give  it  her  or  to  send  it  aright.  He  would 
write  her  once  again,  in  language  which  would  relieve 
his  heart,  and  which  she  must  comprehend.  He 
loved  her ;  perhaps,  ah,  perhaps  she  loved  him  a  little 
in  return  :  he  would  believe  so  till  he  was  undeceived, 
and  be  infinitely  happy  in  the  belief 

Is  it  not  wondrous  how  even  the  tiniest  grain  of 
love  will  permeate  the  saddest  and  sorest  recesses 
of  the  heart,  and  instantly  cause  it  to  pulsate  with 
thoughts  an:l  emotions  the  sweetest  and  dearest  in 
life?  O  Love,  thou  sweet,  thou  young  and  rose 
lipped  cherubim,  how  does  thy  smile  illuminate  the 
universe  !  ho\\^  does  thy  slightest  touch  electrify  the 
soul !  how  gently  and  tenderly  dost  thou  lead  us  up  to 
heaven  ! 

With  Surrey,  to  decide  was  to  act.  The  second  let- 
ter, full  of  sweetest  yet  intensest  love,  —  his  heart  laid 
bare  to  her,  —  was  written ;  was  sent,  enclosed  in  one 
to  his  aunt.  Tom  was  away  in  another  section,  fight- 
ing manfully  for  the  dear  old  flag,  or  the  precious  mis- 
sive would  have  been  intrusted  to  his  care.  He  sent 
5  6 


98  IV/iat  Answer? 

it  thus  that  it  might  reach  her  sooner.  Now  that  he 
had  a  fresh  hope,  he  could  not  wait  to  write  for  her 
address,  and  forward  it  himself  to  her  hands  \  he 
must  adopt  the  speediest  method  of  putting  it  in  her 
possession. 

In  a  little  space  came  answer  from  Mrs.  Russell, 
enclosing  the  letter  he  had  sent :  a  kindly  epistle  it 
was.  He  was  a  sort  of  idol  with  this  same  aunt,  so 
she  had  put  many  things  on  paper  that  were  steeped 
in  gentleness  and  affection  ere  she  said  at  the  end,  "  I 
re-enclose  your  letter.  I  have  seen  Miss  Ercildoune. 
She  restores  it  to  you  ;  she  implores  you  never  to 
write  her  again,  —  to  forget  her.  I  add  my  entreaties 
to  hers.  She  begs  of  me  to  beseech  you  not  to  try 
her  by  any  further  appeals,  as  she  will  but  return  them 
unopened."     That  was  all. 

What  could  it  mean  ?  He  loved  her  so  absolutely, 
he  had  such  exalted  faith  in  her  kindness,  her  gentle- 
ness, her  fairness  and  superiorit}^,  —  iv^her^  —  that  he 
could  not  believe  she  would  so  thrust  back  his  love, 
purely  and  chivalrously  offered,  with  something  that 
seemed  like  ignominy,  unless  she  had  a  sufficient  rea- 
son—  or  one  she  deemed  such  —  for  treating  so 
cruelly  him  and  the  offering  he  laid  at  her  feet. 

But  she  had  spoken.  It  was  for  him,  then,  when 
she  bade  silence,  to  keep  it ;  when  she  refused  his  gift, 
to   refrain  from   thrusting  it  upon  her  attention  and 


IV/iat  Answer?  99 

heart.  But  ah,  the  silence  and  the  refraining !  Ah, 
the  time  —  the  wear}^,  sore,  intolerable  time  —  that 
followed  !  Summer,  and  autumn,  and  winter,  and  the 
seasons  repeated  once  again,  he  tramped  across  the 
soil  of  Virginia,  already  wet  with  rebel  and  patriot 
blood  ;  he  felt  the  shame  and  agony  of  Bull  Run ;  he 
was  in  the  night  struggle  at  Ball's  Bluff,  where  those 
wondrous  Harvard  boys  found  it  "  sweet  to  die  for 
their  country,"  and  discovered,  for  them,  "  death  to  be 
but  one  step  onward  in  life."  He  lay  in  camp,  chaf- 
ing with  impatience  and  indignation  as  the  long 
months  wore  away,  and  the  thousands  of  graves 
about  Washington,  filled  by  disease  and  inaction, 
made  "  all  quiet  along  the  Potomac."  He  went  down 
to  Yorktown ;  w^as  in  the  sweat  and  fury  of  the  seven 
days'  fight ;  away  in  the  far  South,  where  fever  and  pes- 
tilence  stood  guard  to  seize  those  who  were  spared  by 
the  bullet  and  bayonet ;  and  on  many  a  field  well  lost 
or  won.  Through  it  all,  marching  or  fighting,  sick, 
wounded  thrice  and  again  ;  praised,  admired,  heroic, 
promoted,  —  from  private  soldier  to  general,  —  through 
two  years  and  more  of  such  fieiy  experience,  no  part 
of  the  tender  love  was  burned  away,  tarnished,  or 
dimmed. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  he  even  smiled  at  himself  for 
the  constant  thought,  and  felt  that  he  must  certainly 
be    demented    on   this   one  point  at  least,   since  it 


100  IV/ia^  Answer? 

colored  every  impression  of  his  life,  and,  in  some 
shape,  thrust  itself  upon  him  at  tlie  most  unseemly 
and  foreign  times. 

One  evening,  when  the  mail  for  the  division  came 
in,  looking  over  the  pile  of  letters,  his  eye  was  caught 
by  one  addressed  to  James  Given.  The  name  was  fa 
miliar,  —  that  of  his  father's  old  foreman,  whom  he  knew 
to  be  somewhere  in  the  army  ;  doubtless  the  same  man. 
Unquestionably,  he  thought,  that  was  the  reason  he 
was  so  attracted  to  it ;  but  why  he  should  take  up  the 
delicate  little  missive,  scan  it  again  and  again,  hold  it 
in  his  hand  with  the  same  touch  with  which  he  would 
have  pressed  a  rare  flower,  and  lay  it  down  as  reluc- 
tantly as  he  would  have  yielded  a  known  and  visible 
treasure,  —  that  was  the  mystery.  He  had  never  seen 
Francesca's  writing,  but  he  stood  possessed,  almost 
assured,  of  the  belief  that  this  letter  was  penned  by 
her  hand ;  and  at  last  parted  with  it  slowly  and  un- 
willingly, as  though  it  were  the  dear  hand  of  wliich  he 
mused  ;  then  took  himself  to  task  for  this  boyish 
weakness  and  folly.  Nevertheless,  he  went  in  pursuit 
of  Jim,  not  to  question  him,  —  he  was  too  thorough  a 
gentleman  for  that,  —  but  led  on  pardy  by  his  desire 
to  see  a  familiar  face,  partly  by  this  folly,  as  he  called 
it  with  a  sort  of  amused  disdain. 

Folly,  however,  it  was  not,  save   in  such  measure  as 
the  subtle  telegraphings  between  spirit  and  spirit  can 


Jl7ia^  A;iszverf  lOi 

be  thus  called.  Unjustly  so  called  they  are,  con- 
stantly ;  it  being  the  habit  of  most  people  to  denounce 
as  heresy  or  ridicule  as  madness  things  too  high  for 
their  sight  or  too  deep  for  their  comprehension.  As 
these  people  would  say,  "  oddly  enough,"  or  "  by  an 
extraordinary  coincidence,"  this  very  letter  was  from 
INIiss  Ercildoune,  —  a  letter  which  she  WTote  as  she  jDur- 
posed,  and  as  she  well  knew  how  to  write,  in  behalf  of 
Sallie.  It  was  ostensibly  on  quite  another  theme ; 
asking  some  information  in  regard  to  a  comrade,  but 
so  cunningly  devised  and  executed  as  to  tell  him  in  few 
words,  and  unsuspiciously,  some  news  of  Sallie, —  news 
which  she  knew  would  delight  his  heart,  and  overthrow 
the  little  barrier  which  had  stood  between  them,  mak- 
ing both  miserable,  but  which  he  would  not,  and  she 
could  not,  clamber  over  or  destroy.  It  did  its  work 
effectually,  and  made  two  hearts  thoroughly  happy,  — 
this  letter  which  had  so  strangely  bewitched  Surrey ; 
which,  in  his  heart,  spite  of  the  ridicule  of  his  reason, 
he  was  so  sure  was  hers  ;  and  which,  indeed,  was 
hers,  though  he  knew  not  that  till  long  afterward. 

"  So,"  he  thought,  as  he  went  through  the  camp, 
"  Given  is  here,  and  near.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  a 
face  from  home,  whatever  kind  of  a  face  it  may  be, 
and  Given's  is  a  good  one  ;  it  will  be  a  pleasant  re- 
membrancer." 

"  Whither  away  ?  "  called  a  voice  behind  him. 


102  W/iat  A?iszuer? 

"  To  the  29th,"  he  answered  the  questioner,  one  of 
his  officers  and  friends,  who,  coming  up,  took  his  arm, 
—  "  in  pursuit  of  a  man." 

"What's  his  nameV' 

"  Given, — christened  James.  What  are  you  laugh- 
ing at  .-*  do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  know  him,  but  I  've  heard  some  fun- 
ny stories  about  him  ;  he 's  a  queer  stick,  I  should 
think." 

"Something  in  that  way.  —  Helloa!  Brooks,  back 
again  ?  "  to  a  fine,  frank-looking  young  fellow,  —  "  and 
were  you  successful  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  both  your  questions.  In  addition  I  '11  say, 
for  your  rejoicing,  that  I  give  in,  cave,  subside,  have 
notliing  more  to  say  against  your  pet  theory,  —  from 
this  moment  swear  myself  a  rank  abolitionist,  or 
anything  else  you  please,  now  and  forever,  —  so  help 
me  all  ye  black  gods  and  goddesses!" 

"Phew!  what  's  all  this  ?"  cried  Whittlesly,  from 
the  other  side  of  his  Colonel ;  "  what  are  you  driving 
at  1  I  '11  defy  anybody  to  make  head  or  tail  of  that 
answer.'' 

"'  Surrey  understands." 

"  Not  I ;  your  riddle  's  too  much  for  me." 

"  Did  n't  you  go  in  pursuit  of  a  dead  man  ?  "  queried 
Whittlesly. 

"Just  that." 


What  Anszver?  103 

"  Did  the  dead  man  coQvert  you  ?  " 

"  No,  Colonel,  not  precisely.  And  yet  yes,  too  ; 
that  is,  I  suppose  I  should  n't  have  been  converted  if 
he  had  n't  died,  and  I  gone  in  search  of  him." 

*'  I  believe  it ;  you  're  such  an  obstinate  case  that 
you  need  one  raised  from  the  dead  to  have  any  effect 
on  you." 

"  Obstinate !  O,  hear  the  pig-headed  fellow  talk ! 
You  're  a  beauty  to  discourse  on  that  point,  are  n't 
you !  " 

Surrey  laughed,  and  stopped  at  the  call  of  one  of 
his  men,  who  hailed  him  as  he  went  by.  Evidently  a 
favorite  here  as  in  New  York,  in  camp  as  at  home ; 
for  in  a  moment  he  was  surrounded  by  the  men,  who 
crowded  about  him,  each  with  a  question,  or  remark, 
to  draw  special  attention  to  himself,  and  a  word  or 
smile  from  his  commander.  Whatever  complaint  they 
had  to  enter,  or  petition  to  make,  or  favor  to  beg,  or 
wish  to  urge,  whatever  help  they  wanted  or  information 
they  desired,  was  brought  to  him  to  solve  or  to  grant, 
and  —  never  being  repulsed  by  their  officer  —  they 
speedily  knew  and  loved  their  friend.  Thus  it  was 
that  the  two  men  standing  at  a  little  distance,  watch- 
ing the  proceeding,  were  greatly  amused  at  the  motley 
drafts  made  upon  his  attention  in  the  shape  of  tents, 
shoes,  coats,  letters  to  be  sent  or  received,  books  bor- 
rowed and  lent,  a  man  sick,  or  a  chicken  captured. 


104  JlVurt  Afisivcr? 

They  brought  their  interests  and  cares  to  him,  —  these 
big,  brown  fellows,  —  as  though  they  were  children,  and 
he  a  parent  well  beloved. 

"  One  might  think  him  the  father  of  the  regiment," 
said  Brooks,  with  a  smile. 

"  The  mother,  more  like  :  it  must  be  the  woman 
element  in  him  these  fellows  feel  and  love  so." 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  it  would  have  another  effect  on  them, 
if,  for  instance,  he  did  n't  carry  that  sabre-slash  on  his 
hand.  They  've  seen  him  under  steel  and  fire,  and 
know  where  he  's  led  them." 

"  What  is  this  you  were  joking  about  with  him,  a 
while  ago  ? " 

"  What !    about  turning  abolitionist  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  O,  you  know  he  's  rampant  on  the  slaver}^  ques- 
tion. I  believe  it 's  the  only  thing  he  ever  loses  his 
temper  over,  and  he  has  lost  it  with  me  more  than 
once.  I  've  always  been  a  rank  heretic  with  regard  to 
Cuffee,  and  the  result  was,  we  disagreed." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  what  connection  has  that 
with  your  expedition  ?  " 

"Just  what  I  want  to  know,"  added  Surrey,  coming 
up  at  the  moment. 

"  Ah !  you  "re  in  time  to  hear  the  confession,  are 
you  ? " 

"  '  An  honest  confession  —  '  You  know  what  the 
wise  man  savs." 


What  Anszuer?  105 

"  Come,  don't  flatter  yourself  we  will  think  you  so 
because  you  quote  him.  Be  quiet,  both  of  you,  and 
let  me  go  on  to  tell  my  tale." 

"  Attention  ! " 

«  Proceed  !  " 

"Thus,  then.  You  understand  what  my  errand 
was?" 

"  Not  exactly  ;  Lieutenant  Hunt  was  drowned 
somewhere,  was  n't  he  ? " 

"  Yes  :  fell  overboard  from  a  tug  ;  the  men  on  board 
tried  to  save  him,  and  then  to  recover  his  body,  and 
could  n't  do  either.  Some  of  his  people  came  down 
here  in  pursuit  of  it,  and  I  was  detailed  with  a  squad 
to  help  them  in  their  search. 

"  Well,  the  naval  officers  gave  us  every  facility  in 
their  power ;  the  river  was  dragged  twice  over,  and  the 
woods  along-shore  ransacked,  hoping  it  might  have 
been  washed  in  and,  maybe,  buried  ;  but  there  was  n't 
sight  or  trace  of  it.  While  we  were  hunting  round  we 
stumbled  on  a  couple  of  darkies,  who  told  us,  after  a 
bit  of  questioning,  that  darky  number  three,  some- 
where about,  had  found  the  body  of  a  Federal  officer 
on  the  river  bank,  and  buried  it.  On  that  hint  we 
acted,  posted  over  to  the  fellow's  shanty,  and  found, 
not  him,  but  his  wife,  who  was  ready  enough  to  tell  us 
all  she  knew.  She  showed  us  some  traps  of  the  buried 
officer,  among  them  a  pair  of  spurs,  which  his  brother 
5* 


io6  What  Anszve7'f 

recognized  directly.  When  she  was  quite  sure  that  we 
were  all  correct,  and  that  the  thing  had  fallen  into  the 
right  hands,  she  fished  out  of  some  safe  comer  his 
wallet,  with  fifty-seven  dollars  in  it.  I  confess  I  stared, 
for  they  were  slaves,  both  of  them,  and  evidently  poor 
as  Job's  turkey,  and  it  has  always  been  one  of  my 
theories  that  a  nigger  invariably  steals  when  he  gets 
a  chance.  However,  I  was  n't  going  to  give  in  at 
that." 

"  Of  course  you  were  n't,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  Did 
you  ever  read  about  the  man  who  was  told  that  the 
facts  did  not  sustain  his  theory,  and  of  his  sublime 
answer  ?  '  Very  well,'  said  he,  '  so  much  the  worse  for 
the  facts ! ' " 

"  Come,  Colonel,  you  talk  too  much.  How  am  I 
ever  to  get  on  with  my  narrative,  if  you  keep  interrupt- 
ing me  in  this  st}-le  ?     Be  quiet." 

"  Word  of  command.  Quiet.  Quiet  it  is.  Con- 
tinue." 

"  No,  I  said,  of  course  they  expect  some  reward,  — 
that 's  it." 

"  What  an  ass  you  must  be  !  "  broke  in  Whittlesly. 
"  Had  n't  you  sense  enough  to  see  they  could  keep  the 
whole  of  it,  and  nobody  the  wiser  ?  and  of  course  they 
could  n't  have  supposed  any  one  was  coming  after  it, 
—  could  they  ? " 

"  How  am  I  to  know  what  they  thought  ?     If  you 


What  Answer?  107 

don't  stop  your  comments,  I  '11  stop  the  story ;  take 
your  choice." 

"  All  right :  go  ahead." 

"While  I  was  considering  the  case,  in  came  the 
master  of  the  mansion,  —  a  thin,  stooped,  tired-looking 
little  fellow,  —  '  Sam,'  he  told  us,  was  his  name  ;  then 
proceeded  to  narrate  how  he  had  found  the  body,  and 
knew  the  uniform,  and  was  kind  and  tender  with  it  be- 
cause of  its  dress,  '  for  you  see,  sah,  we  darkies  is  all 
Union  folks  '  ;  how  he  had  brought  it  up  in  the  night, 
for  fear  of  his  Secesh  master,  and  made  a  coffin  for  it, 
and  buried  it  decently.  After  that  he  took  us  out  to  a 
litde  spot  of  fresh  earth,  covered  with  leaves  and  twigs, 
and,  digging  down,  we  came  to  a  rough  pine  box  made 
as  well  as  the  poor  fellow  knew  how  to  put  it  together. 
Opening  it,  we  found  all  that  was  left  of  poor  Hunt, 
respectably  clad  in  a  coarse,  clean  white  garment 
which  Sam's  wife  had  made  as  nicely  as  she  could  out 
of  her  one  pair  of  sheets.  '  It  wa'  n't  much,'  said  the 
good  soul,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  '  it  wa'  n't  much  we's 
could  do  for  him,  but  I  washed  him,  and  dressed  him, 
peart  as  I  could,  and  Sam  and  me,  we  buried  him. 
We  wished,  both  on  us,  that  we  could  have  done  heaps 
more  for  him,  but  we  did  all  that  we  could,'  —  which, 
indeed,  was  plain  enough  to  be  seen. 

"Before  we  went  away,  Sam  brought  from  a  little 
hole,  which  he  burrowed  in  the  floor  of  his  cabin,  a 


io8  What  Ansiverf 

something,  done  up  in  dirty  old  rags  ;  and  when  we 
opened  it,  what  under  the  heavens  do  you  suppose  we 
found  ?  You  '11  never  guess.  Three  hundred  dollars 
in  bank-bills,  and  some  important  papers,  which  he  had 
taken  and  hid,  —  concealed  them  even  from  his  wife, 
because,  he  said,  the  guerillas  often  came  round,  and 
they  might  frighten  her  into  giving  them  up  if  she 
knew  they  were  there. 

"  I  collapsed  at  that,  and  stood  with  open  mouth, 
watching  for  the  next  proceeding.  I  knew  there  was 
to  be  some  more  of  it,  and  there  was.  Hunt's  brother 
offered  back  half  the  money  ;  offered  it !  why,  he  tried 
to  force  it  on  the  fellow,  and  could  n't.  His  master 
would  n't  let  him  buy  himself  and  his  wife,  —  I  sus- 
pect, out  of  sheer  cussedness,  —  and  he  had  n't  any 
other  use  for  money,  he  said.  Besides,  he  did  n't  want 
to  take,  and  would  n't  take,  anything  that  looked  like 
pay  for  doing  aught  for  a  '  Linkum  sojer,'  alive  or  dead. 

"  '  They  'se  going  to  make  us  all  free,  sometime,'  he 
said,  '  that 's  enough.  Don't  look  like  it,  jest  yet,  I 
knows  ;  but  I  lives  in  faith ;  it  '11  come  b3-umby.' 
"When  the  fellow  said  that,  I  declare  to  you,  Surrey, 
I  felt  like  hiding  my  face.  At  last  I  began  to  compre- 
hend what  your  indignation  meant  against  the  order 
forbidding  slaves  coming  into  our  lines,  and  command- 
ing their  return  when  they  succeed  in  entering.  Just 
then  we  all  seemed  to  me  meaner  than  dirt." 


\ 


W/mt  Answer?  109 

"As  we  are;  and,  as  dirt,  deserve  to  be  trampled 
underfoot,  beaten,  defeated,  till  we  're  ready  to  stand  up 
and  fight  like  men  in  this  struggle." 

"  Amen  to  that.  Colonel,"  added  Whittlesly. 

"  Well,  I  'm  pretty  nearly  ready  to  say  so  myself," 
finished  Brooks,  half  reluctantly. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men 
Gang  aft  agley." 

Burns. 

THEY  did  n't  find  Jim  in  the  camp  of  his  regi- 
ment, so  went  up  to  head-quarters  to  institute 
inquiries. 

"  Given  ? "  a  Httle  thought  and  investigation.  "  Oh  ! 
Given  is  out  on  picket  duty." 

"Whereabouts?" 

The  direction  indicated  "Thanks!  we'll  find  him." 
Ha\ing  commenced  the  search,  Surrey  was  determined 
to  end  it  ere  he  turned  back,  and  his  two  friends  bore 
him  company.  As  they  came  down  the  road,  they 
saw  in  the  distance  a  great  stalwart  fellow,  red-shirted 
and  conspicuous,  evidently  absorbed  in  some  singular 
task,  —  what  they  did  not  perceive,  till,  coming  to 
closer  quarters,  they  discovered,  perched  by  his  side,  a 
tin  cup  filled  with  soap-suds,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and 
that  by  the  help  of  the  two  he  was  regaling  himself 
with  the  pastime  of  blowing  bubbles. 

"  I  '11  wager  that's  Jim,"  said  Surrey,  before  he  saw 
his  face. 

"  It 's  like  him,  certainly :  from  what  I  Ve  heard  of 


What  Ajisiver?  in 

him,  I   think   he   would    die   outright  if  he  could  n't 
amuse  himself  in  some  shape." 

"  Why,  the  fellow  must  be  a  curiosit}^  worth  coming 
here  to  see." 

"  Pretty  nearly." 

Surrey  walked  on  a  little  in  advance,  and  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  Down  came  the  pipe,  up  went 
the  hand  in  a  respectful  military  salute,  but  before  it 
was  finished  he  saw  who  was  before  him. 

"Wow  !"  he  exclaimed,  "if  it  ain't  Mr.  Willie  Sur- 
rey. My !  ain't  I  glad  to  see  you  ?  How  do  you  do  ? 
The  sight  of  you  is  as  good  as  a  month's  pay." 

"  Come,  Given,  don't  stun  me  with  compliments," 
cried  Surrey,  laughing  and  putting  out  his  hand  to 
grasp  the  big,  red  paw  that  came  to  meet  it,  and 
shake  it  heartily.  "  If  I  'd  known  you  were  over  here, 
I  'd  have  found  you  before,  though  my  regiment  has  n't 
been  down  here  lonsr." 

Jim  at  that  looked  sharply  at  the  "  eagles,"  and  then 
over  the  alert,  graceful  person,  finishing  his  inspection 
with  an  approving  nod,  and  the  emphatic  declaration, 
"  Well,  if  I  know  what's  what,  and  I  rayther  reckon  I 
do,  you  're  about  the  right  figger  for  an  officer,  and  on 
the  whole  I  'd  sooner  pull  off  my  cap  to  you  than  any 
other  fellow  I've  seen  round," — bringing  his  hand 
once  more  to  the  salute. 

"  Why,  Jim,  you  have  turned  courtier ;  army  life  is 


112  What  Ajiszi'cr? 

spoiling  you,"  protested  the  inspected  one  ;  protest- 
ing, —  yet  pleased,  as  any  one  might  have  been,  at 
the  evidently  sincere  admiration. 

"Nar}^  time,"  Jim  strenuously  denied;  and,  these 
little  courtesies  being  ended,  they  talked  about  enlist- 
ment, and  home,  and  camp,  and  a  score  of  things  that 
interested  officer  and  man  alike.  In  the  midst  of  the 
confab  a  dust  was  seen  up  the  road,  coming  nearer, 
and  presently  out  of  it  appeared  a  family  carriage 
somewhat  dilapidated  and  worse  for  wear,  but  still 
quite  magnificent ;  enthroned  on  the  back  seat  a  full- 
blown F.  F.  V.  with  rather  more  than  the  ordinary 
measure  of  superciliousness  belonging  to  his  race ; 
driven,  of  course,  by  his  colored  serv^ant.  Jim  made 
for  the  middle  of  the  road,  and,  holding  his  bayonet  in 
such  wise  as  to  threaten  at  one  charge  horse,  negro, 
and  chivalry,  roared  out,  "  Tickets  !  " 

At  such  an  extraordinar}^  and  unceremonious  de- 
mand the  knight  flushed  angrily,  frowned,  made  an 
expressive  gesture  with  his  lips  and  his  nose  which 
suggestively  indicated  that  there  was  something  offen- 
sive in  the  air  between  the  wind  and  his  gentility, 
ending  the  pantomime  by  finding  a  pass  and  handing 
it  over  to  his  "  nigger,"  then  —  not  deigning  to  speak 
—  motioned  him  and  it  to  the  threatening  figure.  As 
this  black  man  came  forward,  Brooks,  looking  at  him 
a  moment,  cried  excitedly,  "  By  Jove !  it's  Sam." 


U7iat  Anstver?  113 

"No?  Hunt's  Sam?" 

"Yes,  the  very  same;  and  I  suppose  that's  his 
cantankerous  old  master." 

Surrey  ran  forward  to  Jim,  for  the  three  had  fallen 
back  when  the  carriage  came  near,  and  said  a  few 
sentences  to  him  quickly  and  earnestly. 

"All  right.  Colonel !  just  as  you  please,"  he  replied. 
"You  leave  it  to  me  ;  I  '11  fix  him."  Then,  turning  to 
Sam,  who  stood  waiting,  demanded,  "Well,  have  you 
got  it  ?  *' 

"Yes,  massa." 

"  Fork  over,"  —  and  looking  at  it  a  moment  pro- 
nounced "  All  right !  Move  on  I  "  elucidating  the 
remark  by  a  jerk  at  the  coat-collar  of  the  unsuspecting 
Sam,  which  sent  him  whirling  up  the  road  at  a  fine  but 
uncomfortable  rate  of  speed. 

"  Now,  sir,  what  do  you  want  ?  "  addressing  the  as- 
tounded chevalier,  who  sat  speechlessly  observant  of 
this  unlooked-for  proceeding. 

"  Want  ?  "  cried  the  irate  Virginian,  his  anger  loos- 
ening his  tongue,  "  want  ?  I  want  to  go  on,  of  course  ; 
that  was  my  pass." 

"  Was  it  now  ?  I  want  to  know  !  that 's  singular ! 
Why  did  n't  you  offer  it  yourself  then  ?  " 

"  Because  I  thought  my  nigger  a  fitter  person  to 
parley  with  a  Lincoln  vandal,"  loflily  responded  his 
eminence. 


114  W/ial  Answer  f 

"That's  kind  of  you,  I 'm  sure.  Sorry  I  can't 
oblige  you  in  return, — very;  but  you'll  just  have  to 
turn  tail  and  drive  back  again.  That  bit  of  paper 
says  '  Pass  the  bearer,'  and  the  bearer 's  already 
passed.  You  can't  get  two  men  through  this  picket  on 
one  man's  pass,  not  if  one  is  a  nigger  and  t'other  a 
skunk  ;  so,  sir,  face  about,  march  !  " 

This  was  an  unprepared-for  dilemma.  Mr.  V. 
looked  at  the  face  of  the  "  Lincoln  vandal,"  but  saw 
there  no  sign  of  relenting ;  then  into  the  distance 
whither  he  was  anxiously  desirous  to  tend ;  glanced 
reflectively  at  the  bayonet  in  the  centre  and  the  nar- 
row space  on  either  side  the  road  ;  and  finally  called 
to  his  black  man  to  come  back. 

Sam  approached  with  reluctance,  and  fell  back  with 
alacrity  when  the  glittering  steel  was  brandished  to- 
wards his  own  breast. 

"  Where  's  your  pass,  sirrah  ?  "  demanded  Jim,  with 
asperity. 

"  Here,  massa,  "  said  the  chattel,  presenting  the 
same  one  which  had  already  been  examined, 

"Won't  do,"  said  Jim.  "Can't  come  that  game 
over  this  child.  That  passes  you  fo  Fairfax,  —  can't 
get  any  one  from  Fairfax  on  that  ticket.  Come," 
flourishing  the  shooting-stick  once  more,  '•  move 
along  "  ;  which  Sam  proceeded  to  do  with  extraordi- 
nary readiness. 


What  Anszuer?  ii5 

"  Now,  sir,"  turning  to  the  again  speechless  cheva- 
lier, "  if  you  stay  here  any  longer,  I  shall  take  you  un- 
der arrest  to  head-quarters  :  consequently,  you  'd  bet- 
ter accept  the  advice  of  a  disinterested  friend,  and 
make  tracks,  lively." 

By  this  time  the  scion  of  a  latter-day  chivalry 
seemed  to  comprehend  the  situation,  seized  his  lines, 
wheeled  about,  and  v;ent  off  at  a  spanking  trot  over 
the  "  sacred  soil,"  —  Jim  shouting  after  him,  "  I  say, 
Mr.  F.  F.  v.,  if  you  meet  any  'Lincoln  vandals,'  just 
give  them  my  respects,  will  you  ?  "  to  which  as  the 
knight  gave  no  answer,  we  are  left  in  doubt  to  this 
day  whether  Given's  commission  was  ever  executed. 

"  There !  my  mind  's  relieved  on  that  point,"  an- 
nounced Jim,  wiping  his  face  with  one  hand  and  shak- 
ing the  other  after  the  retreating  dust.  "Mean  old 
scoot !  I  '11  teach  him  to  insult  one  of  our  boys,  — 
'  Lincoln  vandals '  indeed  !  I  'd  like  to  have  whanged 
him  !  "  with  a  final  shake  and  a  final  explosion,  cool- 
ing off  as  rapidly  as  he  had  heated,  and  continuing 
the  interrupted  conversation  with  recovered  temper 
and  sang  froid. 

He  was  delighted  at  meeting  Surrey,  and  Surrey 
was  equally  glad  to  see  once  more  his  old  favorite, 
for  Jim  and  he  had  been  great  friends  when  he  was  a 
little  boy  and  had  watched  the  big  boy  at  work  in  his 
father's  foundry,  —  a  favoritism  which,  spite  of  years 


Il6  What  Answer f 

and  changes,  and  wide  distinctions  of  social  position, 
had  never  altered  nor  cooled,  and  which  showed  itself 
now  in  many  a  pleasant  shape  and  fashion  so  long  as 
they  were  near  together. 

They  aided  and  abetted  one  another  in  more  ways 
than  one,  Jim  at  Surrey's  request,  and  by  a  plan  of 
his  proposing,  succeeded  in  getting  Sam's  wife  away 
from  her  home,  —  not  from  any  liking  for  the  expedi- 
tion, or  interest  in  either  of  the  "  niggers,"  as  he  stoutly 
asserted,  but  solely  to  please  the  Colonel.  If  that, 
indeed,  v/ere  his  only  purpose,  he  succeeded  to  a 
charm,  for  when  Surrey  saw  the  two  re-united,  safe 
from  the  awful  clutch  of  slaver}\  supplied  with  ample 
means  for  the  journey  and  the  settlement  thereafter, 
and  on  their  way  to  a  good  Northern  home,  he  was 
more  than  pleased,  —  he  was  rejoiced,  and  said, 
"  Thank  God  !  "  with  all  his  heart,  and  reverently,  as 
he  watched  them  away. 

Before  the  summer  ended  Jim  was  down  with  what 
he  called  "  a  scratch  "  ;  a  prett}^  ugly  v/ound,  the  sur- 
geon thought  it,  and  the  Colonel  remembered  and 
looked  after  him  with  unflagging  interest  and  zeal. 
]\Iany  a  book  and  paper,  many  a  cooling  drink  and  bit 
of  fruit  delicious  to  the  parched  throat  and  fevered  lips, 
found  their  way  to  the  little  table  by  his  side.  Surrey 
was  never  too  busy  by  reason  of  his  duties,  or  among 
his  own  sick  and  wounded  men,  to  find  time  for  a  chat, 


What  Answer?  1 17 

or  a  scrap  of  reading,  or  to  write  a  letter  for  the  pros- 
trate and  helpless  fellow,  who  suffered  without  com- 
plaining, as,  indeed,  they  did  all  about  him,  only- 
relieving  himself  now  and  then  by  a  suppressed  growl. 

And  so,  with  occasional  episodes  of  individual  inter- 
est, with  marches  and  fightings,  with  extremes  of  heat 
and  cold,  of  triumph  and  defeat,  the  long  months  wore 
away.  These  men  were  soldiers,  each  in  his  place  in 
the  great  war  with  the  record  of  which  all  the  world  is 
familiar,  a  tale  written  in  blood,  and  flame,  and  tears, 
—  terrible,  yet  heroic ;  ghastly,  yet  sublime.  As 
soldiers  in  such  a  conflict,  they  did  their  duty  and 
noble  endeavor,  —  Jim,  a  nameless  private  in  the 
ranks,  —  Surrey,  not  braver  perchance,  but  so  conspic- 
uous with  all  the- elements  which  fit  for  splendid  com- 
mand, so  fortunate  in  opportunities  for  their  display,  so 
eminent  in  seizing  them  and  using  them  to  their  fullest 
extent,  regardless  of  danger  and  death,  as  to  make  his 
name  known  and  honored  by  all  who  watched  the 
progress  of  the  fight,  read  its  record  with  interest,  and 
knew  its  heroes  and  leaders  with  pride  and  love. 

In  the  wintdr  of  '6t,  Jim's  regiment  was  ordered 
away  to  South  Carolina ;  and  he  who  at  parting 
looked  with  keen  regret  on  the  face  of  the  man  who 
had  been  so  faithful  and  well  tried  a  friend,  would 
have  looked  upon  it  with  something  deeper  and  sad- 
der, could  he  at  the  same  time  have  gazed  a  little  way 


Ii8  What  Ansiucrl 

into  the  future,  and  seen  what  it  held  in  store  for 
him. 

Four  months  after  he  marched  away,  Surrey's  bri- 
gade was  in  tliat  awful  fight  and  carnage  of  Chancel- 
lorsville,  where  men  fought  like  gods  to  counteract  the 
blunders,  and  retrieve  the  disaster,  induced  by  a  stunned 
and  helpless  brain.  There  was  he  stricken  do\\Ti, 
at  the  head  of  his  command,  covered  with  dust  and 
smoke ;  twice  wounded,  yet  refusing  to  leave  the 
field,  —  his  head  bound  with  a  handkerchief,  his  eyes 
blazing  like  stars  beneath  its  stained  folds,  his  voice 
cheering  on  his  men ;  three  horses  shot  under  him  ;  on 
foot  then ;  contending  for  every  inch  of  the  ground  he 
was  compelled  to  yield ;  giving  way  only  as  he  was 
forced  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet ;  his  men  eager  to 
emulate  him,  to  follow  him  into  the  jaws  of  death,  to 
fall  by  his  side,  —  thus  was  he  prostrated ;  not  dead, 
as  they  thought  and  feared  when  they  seized  him  and 
bore  him  at  last  from  the  field,  but  insensible,  bleed- 
ing with  frightful  abundance,  his  right  arm  shattered 
to  fragments;  not  dead,  yet  at  death's  door — and 
looking  in. 

May  blossoms  had  dropped,  and  June  harvests  were 
ripe  on  all  the  fields,  ere  he  could  take  advantage 
of  the  unsolicited  leave,  and  go  home.  Home  —  for 
which  his  heart  longed  ! 

He  vv^as  not,  however,  in  too  great  haste  to  stop  by 


What  Ansivcr?  119 

the  way,  to  pause  in  Washington,  and  do  what  he  had 
sooner  intended  to  accomplish,  —  solicit,  as  a  special 
favor  to  himself,  as  an  honor  justly  won  by  the  man 
for  whom  he  entreated  it,  a  promotion  for  Jim.  "  It 
is  impossible  now,"  he  was  informed,  "but  the  case 
should  be  noted  and  remembered.  If  anything  could 
certainly  secure  the  man  an  advance,  it  was  the  advo- 
cacy of  General  Surrey "  ;  and  so,  not  quite  content, 
but  still  satisfied  that  Jim's  time  was  in  the  near  fu- 
ture, he  went  on  his  way. 

As  the  cars  approached  Philadelphia  his  heart  beat 
so  fast  that  it  almost  stifled  him,  and  he  leaned 
against  the  window  heavily  for  air  and  support.  It 
was  useless  to  reason  with  himself,  vain  to  call  good 
judgment  to  his  counsels  and  summon  wisdom  to  his 
aid.  This  was  her  home.  Somesvhere  in  this  city  to 
which  he  was  so  rapidly  hastening,  she  was  moving 
up  and  down,  had  her  being,  was  living  and  loving. 
After  these  long  years  his  eyes  so  ached  to  see  her,  his 
heart  was  so  hungr}^  for  her  presence,  that  it  seemed 
to  him  as  though  the  sheer  longing  would  call  her  out 
of  her  retreat,  on  to  the  streets  through  which  he 
must  pass,  across  his  path,  into  the  sight  of  his  eyes 
and  reach  of  his  hand.  He  had  thought  that  he  felt 
all  this  before.  He  found,  as  the  space  diminished 
between  them,  —  as,  perchance,  she  was  but  a  stone's 
throw  from  his  side,  —  that  the  pain,  and  the  longing, 


120  What  Answer? 

and  the  intolerable  desire  to  behold  her  once  again, 
increased  a  hundred-fold. 

Eager  as  he  had  been  a  little  while  before  to  reach 
his  home,  he  was  content  to  remain  quietly  here  now. 
He  laughed  at  himself  as  he  stepped  into  a  carriage, 
and,  tired  as  he  was,  ^-for  his  amputated  arm,  not  yet 
thoroughly  healed,  made  him  weak  and  worn,  —  drove 
through  all  the  afternoon  and  evening,  across  miles 
and  miles  of  heated,  wearisome  stones,  possessed  by 
the  idea  that  somewhere,  somehow,  he  should  see  her, 
he  would  find  her  before  his  quest  was  done. 

After  that  last  painful  rebuff,  he  did  not  dare  to  go 
to  her  home,  could  he  find  it,  till  he  had  secured  from 
her,  in  some  fashion,  a  word  or  sign.  "  This,"  he 
said,  "■  is  certainly  doubly  absurd,  since  she  does  not 
live  in  the  city  ;  but  she  is  here  to-day,  I  know,  —  she 
must  be  here"  ;  and  persisted  in  his  endeavor,  —  per- 
sisted, naturally,  in  vain  ;  and  went  to  bed,  at  last, 
exhausted ;  determined  that  to-morrow  should  find  him 
on  his  journey  farther  north,  whatever  wish  might  plead 
for  delay,  yet  with  a  final  cry  for  her  from  the  depths 
of  his  soul,  as  he  stretched  out  his  solitary  arm,  ere 
sinking  to  restless  sleep,  and  dreams  of  battle  and 
death  —  sleep  unrefreshing,  and  dreams  ill-omened;  as 
he  thought,  again  and  again,  rousing  himself  from  their 
hold,  and  looking  out  to  the  night,  impatient  for  the 
break  of  day. 


W/ia^  Answer?  121 

When  day  broke  he  was  unable  to  rise  with  its 
dawn.  The  effect  of  all  this  tension  on  his  already- 
overtaxed  nerves  was  to  induce  a  fever  in  the  unhealed 
arm,  which,  though  not  painful,  was  yet  sufficient  to 
hold  him  close  prisoner  for  several  days;  a  delay 
which  chafed  him,  and  which  filled  his  family  at  home 
with  an  intolerable  anxiety,  not  that  they  knew  its 
cause,  —  that  would  have  been  a  relief,  —  but  that  they 
conjectured  another,  to  them  infinitely  worse  than  sick- 
ness or  suffering,  bad  and  sorrowful  as  were  these. 


CHAPTER    X 


Gentlemen,  let  not  prejudice  prepossess  you." 

IzAAK  Walton'. 


CAR  No.  14,  Fifth  Street  line,  Philadelphia,  was 
crowded.  Travelling  bags,  shawls,  and  dusters 
marked  that  people  were  making  for  the  1 1  a.  m.  New 
York  train,  Kensington  depot.  One  pleasant-looking 
old  gentleman  whose  face  shone  under  a  broad  brim, 
and  whose  cleanly  drabs  were  brought  into  distasteful 
proximity  with  the  garments  of  a  drunken  coal-heaver, 
after  a  vain  effort  to  edge  away,  relieved  his  mind  by 
turning  to  his  neighbor  with  the  statement,  "  Consis- 
tency is  a  jewel." 

"Undoubtedly  true,  Mr.  Greenleaf,"  answered  the 
neighbor,  "  but  what  caused  the  remark  ?  " 

"  That,"  —  looking  with  mild  disgust  at  the  dirt}^  and 
ragged  leg  sitting  by  his  own.  "  Here  's  this  filthy 
fellow,  a  nuisance  to  everybody  near  him,  can  ride  in 
these  cars,  and  a  nice,  respectable  colored  person 
can't.  So  I  could  n't  help  thinking,  and  saying,  that 
consistency  is  a  jewel." 

"  Well,  it 's  a  shame,  —  that 's  a  fact ;  but  of  course 
nobody  can  interfere  if  the  companies  don't  choose  to 
let  them  ride  ;  it 's  their  concern,  not  ours." 


>^  What  Ansiver?  123 

"  There  's  a  fine  specimen  now,  out  there  on  the 
sidewalk."  The  fine  specimen  was  a  large,  powerfully- 
made  man,  black  as  ebony,  dressed  in  army  blouse 
and  trousers,  one  leg  gone,  —  evidently  very  tired,  for 
he  leaned  heavily  on  his  crutches.  The  conductor,  a 
kindly-faced  young  fellow,  pulled  the  strap,  and  helped 
him  on  to  the  platform  with  a  peremptory  "  Move  up 
front,  there  !  "  to  the  people  standing  inside. 

"Why  ! "  exclaimed  the  old  Friend,  — "  do  my  eyes 
deceive  me  ? "  Then  getting  up,  and  taking  the  man 
by  the  arm,  he  seated  him  in  his  own  place  :  "  Thou 
art  less  able  to  stand  than  I." 

Tears  rushed  to  his  eyes  as  he  said,  "  Thank  you, 
sir  !  you  are  too  kind."  Evidently  he  was  weak,  and 
as  evidently  unaccustomed  to  find  any  one  "  too  kind." 

"  Thee  has  on  the  army  blue ;  has  thee  been  fighting 
any?" 

"  Yes,  sir !  "  he  answered,  promptly. 

"  I  did  n't  know  black  men  were  in  the  army ;  yet 
thee  has  lost  a  leg.     Where  did  that  go?" 

"  At  Newbern,  sir." 

"  At  Newbern,  —  ah !  long  ago  ?  and  how  did  it 
happen  ? " 

"  Fourteenth  of  March,  sir.  There  was  a  land  fight, 
and  the  gunboats  came  up  to  the  rescue.  Some  of  us 
black  men  were  upon  board  a  little  schooner  that 
carried  one  gun.     '  T  was  n't  a  great  deal  we  could  do 


124  U7mt  A?iszuerf 

with  that,  but  we  did  the  best  we  could  ;  and  got  well 
peppered  in  return.  This  is  what  it  did  for  me,"  — 
looking  down  at  the  stump. 

"  I  guess  thee  is  sorry  now  that  thee  did  n't  keep 
out  of  it,  is  n't  thee  ? " 

"No,  sir  ;  no  indeed,  sir.  If  I  had  five  hundred  legs 
and  fifty  lives,  I  'd  be  glad  to  give  them  all  in  such  a 
war  as  this." 

Here  somebody  got  out ;  the  old  Friend  sat  down  ; 
and  the  coal-heaver,  roused  by  the  stir,  lifted  himself 
from  his  drunken  sleep,  and,  looking  round,  saw  who 
was  beside  him. 

A  vile  oath,  an  angry  stare  from  his  bloodshot  eyes. 

"Ye ,  what  are  ye  doin'  here?  out  wid  ye, 

quick  !  " 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  queried  the  conductor,  who 
was  collecting  somebody's  fare. 

"  The  matther,  is  it  ?  matther  enough  !  what 's  this 
nasty  nagur  doin'  here  ?     Put  him  out,  can't  ye  ?  " 

The  conductor  took  no  notice. 

"  Conductor  !  "  spoke  up  a  well-dressed  man,  with 
the  air  and  manner  of  a  gentleman,  "  what  does  that 
card  say  ? " 

The  conductor  looked  at  the  card  indicated,  upon 
which  was  printed  "  Colored  people  not  allowed  in  this 
car,"  legible  enough  to  require  less  study  than  he  saw 
fit  to  give  it.     "  Well !  "  he  said. 


What  Answer  f  125 

"  Well,"  was  the  answer,  —  "  your  duty  is  plain.  Put 
that  fellow  out." 

The  conductor  hesitated,  —  looked  round  the  car. 
Nobody  spoke. 

"  I  'm  sorry,  my  man  !  I  hoped  there  would  be  no 
objection  when  I  let  you  in  ;  but  our  orders  are  strict, 
and,  as  the  passengers  ain't  willing,  you'll  have  to 
get  off,"  — jerking  angrily  at  the  bell. 

As  the  car  slackened  speed,  a  young  officer,  whom 
nobody  noticed,  got  on. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause  as  the  black  man  gath- 
ered up  his  crutches,  and  raised  himself  painfully. 
"  Stop  ! "  cried  a  thrilling  and  passionate  voice,  — 
"  stand  still !  Of  what  stuff  are  you  made  to  sit  here 
and  see  a  man,  mangled  and  maimed  in  your  cause 
and  iox  your  defence,  insulted  and  outraged  at  the  bid- 
ding of  a  drunken  boor  and  a  cowardly  traitor  ? "  The 
voice,  the  beautiful  face,  the  intensity  burning  through 
both,  electrified  every  soul  to  which  she  appealed. 
Hands  were  stretched  out  to  draw  back  the  crippled 
soldier  j  eyes  that  a  moment  before  were  turned  away 
looked  kindly  at  him  ;  a  Babel  of*  voices  broke  out, 
"  No,  no,"  "  let  him  stay,"  "  it 's  a  shame,"  "  let 
him  alone,  conductor,"  "  we  ain't  so  bad  as  that," 
with  more  of  the  same  kind ;  those  who  chose  not  to 
join  in  the  chorus  discreetly  held  their  peace,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  sing  out  of  time  and  tune. 


126  What  Ansiverf 

The  car  started  again.  The  genile77ian^  furious  at 
the  turn  of  the  tide,  cried  out,  "  Ho,  ho !  here  's  a 
pretty  preacher  of  the  gospel  of  equaUty  !  why,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  this  high-flyer,  who  presumes  to  lec- 
ture us,  is  nothing  but  a" 

The  sentence  was  cut  short  in  mid-career,  the  inso- 
lent sneer  dashed  out  of  his  face,  —  face  and  form 
prone  on  the  floor  of  the  car,  —  while  over  him  bent 
and  blazed  the  young  officer,  whose  entrance,  a  little 
while  before,  nobody  had  heeded. 

Spurning  the  prostrate  body  at  his  feet,  he  turned 
to  Francesca,  for  it  was  she,  and  stretched  out  his 
hand,  —  his  left  hand,  —  his  only  one.  It  was  time  ; 
all  the  heat,  and  passion,  and  color,  had  died  out,  and 
she  stood  there  shivering,  a  look  of  suffering  in  her 
face. 

"  Miss  Ercildoune  !  you  are  ill,  — you  need  the  air, 
—  allow  me  !  "  drawing  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and 
taking  her  out  with  infinite  deference  and  care. 

"  Thank  you  !  a  moment's  faintness,  —  it  is  over 
now,"  as  they  reached  the  sidewalk. 

"  No,  no,  you  are  too  ill  to  walk,  —  let  me  get  you  a 
carriage." 

Hailing  one  that  was  passing  by,  he  put  her  in,  his 
hand  lingering  on  hers,  hngering  on  the  folds  of  her 
dress  as  he  bent  to  arrange  it ;  his  eyes  clinging  to  her 
face  with  a  passionate,  woful  tenderness.     "  It  is  two 


What  Anszver?  127 

years  since  I  saw  you,  since  I  have  heard  from  you," 
he  said,  his  voice  hoarse  with  the  effort  to  speak 
quietly. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  it  is  two  years."  Stooping 
her  head  to  write  upon  a  card,  her  lips  moved  as  if 
they  said  something,  —  something  that  seemed  like 
"  I  must !  only  once ! "  but  of  course  that  could  not 
be.  "  It  is  my  address,"  she  then  said,  putting  the 
card  in  his  hand.  "  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  in 
my  own  home." 

"  This  afternoon  ?  "  eagerly. 

She  hesitated.  "  Whenever  you  may  call.  I  thank 
you  again,  —  and  good  morning." 

Meanwhile  the  car  had  moved  on  its  course  :  out 
wardly,  peaceful  enough  ;  inwardly,  full  of  commotion. 
The  conser\'ative  gentleman,  gatheringhimself  up  from 
his  prone  estate,  white  with  passion  and  chagrin,  saw 
about  him  everywhere  looks  of  scorn,  and  smiles  of 
derision  and  contempt,  and  fled  incontinently  from 
the  sight. 

His  coal-heaving  co?ifrh'e,  left  to  do  battle  alone, 
came  to  the  charge  valiant  and  unterrified.  Another 
outbreak  of  blasphemy  and  obscenity  were  the  weap- 
ons of  assault ;  the  ladies  looked  shocked,  the  gentle- 
men indignant  and  disgusted. 

"  Friend,"  called  the  non-resistant  broad-brim,  beck- 
oning peremptorily  to  the  conductor,  —  "  friend,  come 
here." 


128  W/mi  A?iswer? 

The  conductor  came. 

"  If  colored  persons  are  not  permitted  to  ride,  1 
suppose  it  is  equally  against  the  rules  of  the  company 
to  allow  nuisances  in  their  cars.     Is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  You  are  right,  sir,"  assented  the  conductor,  up- 
on whose  face  a  smile  of  comprehension  began  to 
beam. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  thee  thinks,  or  what 
these  other  people  think,  but  I  know  of  no  worse  nui- 
sance than  a  filthy,  blasphemous  drunkard.  There  he 
sits,  —  remove  him." 

There  was  a  perfect  shout  of  laughter  and  delight; 
and  before  the  irate  "  citizen "  comprehended  what 
was  intended,  or  could  throw  himself  into  a  pugilistic 
attitude,  he  was  seized,  sans  ceremony,  and  ignomin- 
iously  pushed  and  hustled  from  the  car ;  the  people 
therein,  black  soldier  and  all,  drawing  a  long  breath 
of  relief,  and  going  on  their  way  rejoicing.  Every- 
body's eyes  were  brighter ;  hearts  beat  faster,  blood 
moved  more  quickly ;  everybody  felt  a  sense  of  ela- 
tion, and  a  kindness  towards  their  neighbor  and  all 
the  world.  A  cruel  and  senseless  prejudice  had  been 
lost  in  an  impulse,  generous  and  just ;  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  sentiment  which  exalted  their  humanity,  viv- 
ified and  gladdened  their  souls. 


CHAPTER    XI 


"  The  future  seemed  barred 
By  the  corpse  of  a  dead  hope." 

OwEM  Meredith. 


O  O,  then,  after  these  long  years  he  had  seen  her 
*^  again.  Having  seen  her,  he  wondered  how  he 
had  Uved  without  her.  If  the  wearisome  months 
seemed  endless  in  passing,  the  morning  hours  were  an 
eternity.  "  This  afternoon  ? "  he  had  said.  "  Be  it  so," 
she  had  answered.     He  did  not  dare  to  go  till  then. 

Thinking  over  the  scene  of  the  morning,  he  scarcely 
dared  go  at  all.  She  had  not  offered  her  hand  ;  she 
had  expressed  no  pleasure,  either  by  look  or  word,  at 
meeting  him  again.  He  had  forced  her  to  say, 
*'  Come  " :  she  could  do  no  less  when  he  had  just  in- 
terfered to  save  her  insult,  and  had  begged  the  boon. 

"  Insult ! "  his  arm  ached  to  strike  another  blow,  as 
he  remembered  the  sentence  it  had  cut  short.  Of 
course  the  fellow  had  been  drinking,  but  outrage  of 
her  was  intolerable,  whatever  madness  prompted  it. 
The  very  sun  must  shine  more  brightly,  and  the  wind 
blow  softly,  when  she  passed  by.  Ah  me  !  were  the 
whole  world  what  an  ardent  lover  prays  for  his  mistress, 
there  were  no  need  of  death  to  enjoy  the  bhss  of 
heaven. 

6*  I 


130  W/iai  Answer? 

What  could  he  say  ?  what  do  ?  how  find  words 
to  speak  the  measured  feelings  of  a  friend  ?  how  con- 
trol the  beatings  of  his  heart,  the  passion  of  his  soul, 
that  no  sign  should  escape  to  wound  or  offend  her? 
She  had  bade  him  to  silence  :  was  he  sufficiently 
master  of  himself  to  strike  the  lighter  keys  without 
sounding  some  deep  chords  that  would  jar  upon  her 
ear? 

He  tried  to  picture  the  scene  of  their  second  meet- 
ing. He  repeated  again  and  again  her  formal  tide, 
Miss  Ercildoune,  that  he  might  familiarize  his  tongue 
and  his  ear  to  the  sound,  and  not  be  on  the  instant 
betrayed  into  calling  the  name  which  he  so  often. ut- 
tered in  his  thoughts.  He  said  over  some  civil,  kindly 
words  of  greeting,  and  endeavored  to  call  up,  and  ar- 
range in  order,  a  theme  upon  which  he  should  con- 
verse. "  I  shall  not  dare  to  be  silent,"  he  thought, 
"  for  if  I  am,  my  silence  will  tell  the  tale  ;  and  if  that 
do  not,  she  will  hear  it  from  the  throbbings  of  my 
heart.  I  don't  know  though,"  —  he  laughed  a  little,  as 
he  spoke  aloud,  —  bitterly  it  would  have  been,  had  his 
voice  been  capable  of  bitterness,  —  "  perhaps  she  will 
think  the  organism  of  the  poor  thing  has  become 
diseased  in  camp  and  fightings,"  —  putting  his  hand 
up  to  his  throat  and  holding  the  swollen  veins,  where 
the  blood  was  beating  furiously. 

Presently  he  went  down  stairs  and  out  to  the  street, 


W/iai  Ajiswer?  131 

in  pursuit  of  some  cut  flowers  which  he  found  in  a  lit- 
tle cellar,  a  stone's  throw  from  his  hotel,  —  a  fresh, 
damp  little  cellar,  which  smelt,  he  could  not  help 
thinking,  like  a  grave.  Coming  out  to  the  sunshine, 
he  shook  himself  with  disgust.  "  Faugh  !  "  he  thought, 
"  what  sick  fancies  and  sentimental  nonsense  possess 
me  ?  I  am  growing  unwholesome.  My  dreams  of  the 
other  night  have  come  back  to  torment  me  in  the  day. 
These  must  put  them  to  flight. 

The  fancy  which  had  sent  him  in  pursuit  of  these 
flowers  he  confessed  to  be  a  childish  one,  but  none 
the  less  soothing  for  that.  He  had  remembered  that 
the  first  day  he  beheld  her  a  nosegay  had  decorated 
his  button-hole ;  a  fair,  sweet-scented  thing  which 
seemed,  in  some  subtle  way,  like  her.  He  wanted 
now  just  such  another,  —  some  mignonette,  and  gera- 
nium, and  a  single  tea-rosebud.  Here  they  were,  — 
the  very  counterparts  of  those  which  he  had  worn  on  a 
brighter  and  happier  day.  How  like  they  were  !  how 
changed  was  he  !  In  some  moods  he  would  have 
smiled  at  this  bit  of  girlish  folly  as  he  fastened  the  lit- 
tle thing  over  his  heart ;  now,  something  sounded  in 
his  tliroat  that  was  pitifully  like  a  sob.  Don't  smile  at 
him !  he  was  so  young ;  so  impassioned,  yet  gentle ; 
and  then  he  loved  so  utterly  with  the  whole  of  his 
great,  sore  heart. 

By  and  by   the  time  came  to  go,  and  eager,  yet 


132  W/ia(  Answer? 

fearful,  he  went.  It  was  a  fresh,  beautiful  day  in  early 
June ;  and  when  the  city,  with  its  heat,  and  dust,  and 
noise,  was  left  behind,  and  all  the  leafy  greenness  — • 
the  soothing  quiet  of  country  sights  and  country 
sounds  —  met  his  ear  and  eye,  a  curious  peace  took 
possession  of  his  soul.  It  w^as  less  the  whisper  of 
hope  than  the  calm  of  assured  reality.  For  the  mo- 
ment, unreasonable  as  it  seemed,  something  made  him 
blissfully  sure  of  her  love,  spite  of  the  rebuffs  and 
coldness  she  had  compelled  him  to  endure. 

"  This  is  the  place,  sir  !  "  suddenly  called  his  driver, 
stopping  the  horses  in  front  of  a  stately  avenue  of 
trees,  and  jumping  down  to  open  the  gates. 

"You  need  not  drive  in;  you  may  wait  here." 

This,  then,  was  her  home.  He  took  in  the  exqui- 
site beauty  of  the  place  with  a  keen  pleasure.  It  was 
right  that  all  things  sweet  and  fine  should  be  about 
her ;  he  had  before  known  that  they  were,  but  it  de- 
lighted him  to  see  them  with  his  own  eyes.  Walking 
slowly  towards  the  house,  —  slowly,  for  he  was  both 
impelled  and  retarded  by  the  conflicting  feelings  that 
mastered  him,  —  he  heai-d  her  voice  at  a  little  distance, 
singing  ;  and  directly  she  came  out  of  a  by-path,  and 
faced  him.  He  need  not  have  feared  the  meeting ; 
at  least,  any  display  of  emotion ;  she  gave  no  oppor- 
tunity for  any  such  thing. 

A  frankly  extended  hand,  —  an  easy  "  Good  after- 


What  Answer^  I33 

noon,  IMr.  Surrey  ! "  That  was  aW.  It  was  a  cool, 
beautiful  room  into  which  she  ushered  him ;  a  room 
filled  with  an  atmosphere  of  peace,  but  which  was  any 
thing  but  peaceful  to  him.  He  was  restless,  nervous  \ 
eager  and  excited,  or  absent  and  still.  He  deter- 
mined to  master  his  emotion,  and  give  no  outward 
sign  of  the  tempest  raging  within. 

At  the  instant  of  this  conclusion  his  eye  was  caught 
by  an  exquisite  portrait  miniature  upon  an  easel  near 
him.  Bending  over  it,  taking  it  into  his  hands,  his 
eyes  went  to  and  fro  from  the  pictured  face  to  the  hu- 
man one,  tracing  the  likeness  in  each.  IMarking  his 
interest,  Francesca  said,  "  It  is  my  mother." 

"  If  the  eyes  were  dark,  this  would  be  your  veritable 
image." 

"  Or,  if  mine  were  blue,  I  should  be  a  portrait  of 
mamma,  which  would  be  better." 

"  Better  ? " 

"  Yes."  She  was  looking  at  the  picture  with  weary 
eyes,  which  he  could  not  see.  "  I  had  rather  be  the 
shadow  of  her  than  the  reality  of  myself :  an  absurd 
fancy !  "  she  added,  with  a  smile,  suddenly  remember- 
ing herself 

"  I  would  it  were  true  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

She  looked  a  surprised  inquiry.  His  thought  was, 
"  for  then  I  should  steal  you,  and  wear  you  always  on 
my  heart."     But  of  course  he  could   speak  no  such 


134  JV/iai  Ansiucr? 

lovers  nonsense  ;  so  he  said,  "  Because  of  the  fitness 
of  things  ;  you  wished  to  be  a  shadow,  which  is  im- 
material, and  hence  of  the  substance  of  angels." 

Truly  he  was  improving.  His  effort  to  betray  no 
love  had  led  him  into  a  ridiculous  compliment. 
"  What  an  idiot  she  will  think  me  to  say  an)thing  so 
silly ! "  he  reflected  ;  while  Francesca  was  thinking, 
"  He  has  ceased  to  love  me,  or  he  would  not  resort  to 
flatter}^  It  is  well ! "  but  the  pang  that  shot  through 
her  heart  belied  the  closing  thought,  and,  glancing  at 
him,  the  first  was  denied  by  the  unconscious  exjDression 
of  his  eyes.  Seeing  that,  she  directly  took  alarm,  and 
commenced  to  talk  upon  a  score  of  indifferent  themes. 

He  had  never  seen  her  in  such  a  mood  :  gay,  witty, 
brilliant,  —  full  of  a  restless  sparkle  and  fire ;  she 
would  not  speak  an  earnest  word,  nor  hear  one.  She 
flung  about  bon-mots,  and  chatted  airy  persiflage  till 
his  heart  ached.  At  another  time,  in  another  condition, 
he  would  have  been  delighted,  dazzled,  at  this  strange 
display  ;  but  not  now. 

In  some  careless  fashion  the  war  had  been  alluded 
to,  and  she  spoke  of  Chancellorsville.  "  It  was  there 
you  were  last  wounded  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  not  even  looking  down  at  the 
empt}-  sleeve. 

"  It  was  there  you  lost  your  arai  ? " 

"Tes,"  he  answered  again,  "  I  am  sorry  it  was  my 
sword-arm." 


IV/iat  Ajtswer?  135 

"  It  was  frightful,"  —  holding  her  breath.  "  Do 
you  know  you  were  reported  mortally  wounded  ? 
worse  ? " 

"  I  have  heard  that  I  was  sent  up  with  the  slain," 
he  replied,  half-smiling. 

"  It  is  true.  I  looked  for  your  name  in  the  columns 
of  '  wounded '  and  '  missing,'  and  read  it  at  last  in 
the  list  of  '  killed.'  " 

"  For  the  sake  of  old  times,  I  trust  you  were  a  little 
sorry  to  so  read  it,"  he  said,  sadly,  for  the  tone  hurt 
him. 

"  Sorr}^  ?  yes,  I  was  soriy.  Who,  indeed,  of  your 
friends  would  not  be  ?  " 

"  Who,  indeed  ? "  he  repeated  :  "  I  am  afraid  the 
one  whose  regret  I  should  most  desire  would  sorrow 
the  least." 

"  It  is  very  like,"  she  answered,  with  seeming  care- 
lessness, —  "  disappointment  is  the  rule  of  life." 

This  would  not  do.  He  was  getting  upon  danger- 
ous ground.  He  would  change  the  theme,  and  pre- 
vent any  farther  speech  till  he  was  better  master  of  it. 
He  begged  for  some  music.  She  sat  down  at  once 
and  played  for  him  ;  then  sang  at  his  desire.  Rich  as 
she  was  in  the  gifts  of  nature,  her  voice  was  the  chief,  — 
thrilling,  flexible,  with  a  sympathetic  quality  that  in 
singing  pathetic  music  brought  tears,  though  the 
hearer  understood  not  a  word  of  the  language  in  which 


136  liViat  Answer? 

she  sang.  In  the  old  time  he  had  never  wearied  hs- 
tening,  and  now  he  besought  her  to  repeat  for  him 
some  of  the  dear,  famihar  songs.  If  these  held  for  her 
any  associations,  he  did  not  know  it ;  she  gave  no  out- 
ward sign,  —  sang  to  him  as  sweetly  and  calmly  as  to 
the  veriest  stranger.  What  else  had  he  expected  ? 
Nothing ;  yet,  with  the  unreasonableness  of  a  lover, 
was  disappointed  that  nothing  appeared. 

Taking  up  a  piece  at  random,  without  pausing  to 
remember  the  words,  he  said,  spreading  it  before  her, 
"  May  I  tax  you  a  little  farther  ?  I  am  greedy,  I 
know,  but  then  how  can  I  help  it  ?  " 

It  was  the  song  of  the  Princess. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  half  closed  the  book. 
Had  he  been  standing  where  he  could  see  her  face,  he 
would  have  been  shocked  by  its  pallor.  It  was  over 
directly :  she  recovered  herself,  and,  opening  the 
music  with  a  resolute  air,  began  to  sing  :  — 

"  Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea ; 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the  shape, 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  and  of  cape  ; 
But,  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answered  thee  "i 
Ask  me  no  more." 

"  Ask  me  no  more  :   what  answer  should  I  give  .^ 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  ; 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die  ! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live  : 
Ask  me  no  more." 


W/iat  Answer?  137 

She  sang  thus  far  with  a  clear,  untrembling  voice,  — 
so  clear  and  untrembling  as  to  be  almost  metallic,  — 
the  restraint  she  had  put  upon  herself  making  it  un- 
natural. At  the  commencement  she  had  estimated 
her  strength,  and  said,  "  It  is  sufficient ! "  but  she 
had  overtaxed  it,  as  she  found  in  singing  the  last 
verse  :  — 

"  Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are  sealed  ; 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain  ; 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  ; 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield : 
Ask  me  no  more." 

All  the  longing,  the  passion,  the  prayer  of  which  a 
human  soul  is  capable  found  expression  in  her  voice. 
It  broke  through  the  affected  coldness  and  calm,  as 
the  ocean  breaks  through  its  puny  barriers  when,  after 
wind  and  tempest,  all  its  mighty  floods  are  out.  Sur- 
rey had  changed  his  place,  and  stood  fronting  her. 
As  the  last  word  fell,  she  looked  at  him,  and  the  two 
faces  saw  in  each  but  a  reflection  of  the  same  passion 
and  pain  :  pallid,  with  eyes  burning  from  an  inward 
fire,  —  swayed  by  the  same  emotion,  —  she  bent  for- 
ward as  he,  stretching  forth  his  arms,  in  a  stifling  voice 
cried,  "Come!" 

Bent,  but  for  an  instant ;  then,  by  a  superhuman 
effort,  turned  from  him,  and  put  out  her  hand  with  a 
gesture  of  dissent,  though  she  could  not  control  her 
voice  to  speak  a  word. 


138  W/iat  Answer? 

At  that  he  came  close  to  her,  not  touching  her  hand 
or  even  her  dress,  but  looking  into  her  face  with  im- 
ploring eyes,  and  whispering,  "  Francesca,  my  darling, 
speak  to  me  !  say  that  you  love  me  !  one  word  !  You 
are  breaking  my  heart !  " 

Not  a  word. 

"  Francesca  ! " 

She  had  mastered  her  voice.  "  Go ! "  she  then 
said,  beseechingly.  "  Oh,  why  did  you  ask  me  ?  why 
did  I  let  you  come  ? " 

"  No,  no,"  he  answered.  "  I  cannot  go,  —  not  till 
you  answer  me." 

"  Ah  ! "  she  entreated,  "  do  not  ask  !  I  can  give 
no  such  answer  as  you  desire.  It  is  all  wrong,  —  all 
a  mistake.     You  do  not  comprehend." 

"  Make  me,  then." 

She  was  silent. 

"  Forgive  me.  I  am  rude :  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
will  not  go  unless  you  say,  *  I  do  not  love  you.'  Noth- 
ing but  this  shall  drive  me  away." 

Francesca's  training  in  her  childhood  had  been  by 
a  Catholic  governess ;  she  never  quite  lost  its  effect. 
Now  she  raised  her  hand  to  a  little  gold  cross  that 
hung  at  her  neck,  her  fingers  closing  on  it  with  a  de- 
spairing clasp.  "Ah,  Christ,  have  pity!"  her' heart 
cried.  "  Blessed  Mother  of  God,  forgive  me !  have 
mercy  upon  me  !  " 


What  Answer?  139 

Her  face  was  frightfully  pale,  but  her  voice  did  not 
tremble  as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said  gently, 
"  Go,  then,  my  friend.     I  do  not  love  you." 

He  took  her  hand,  held  it  close  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  without  another  look  or  word,  put  it  tenderly 
down,  and  was  gone. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  painful  thought  that,  passing 
down  the  long  avenue  with  bent  head,  he  did  not  no- 
tice, nor  even  see,  a  gentleman  who,  coming  from  the 
opposite  direction,  looked  at  him  at  first  carelessly,  and 
then  searchingly,  as  he  went  by. 

This  gentleman,  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  hand- 
some, stately,  and  evidently  at  home  here,  scrutinized 
the  stranger  with  a  singular  intensity,  — made  a  move- 
ment as  though  he  would  speak  to  him,  —  and  then, 
drawing  back,  went  with  hasty  steps  towards  the  house. 

Had  Willie  looked  up,  beheld  this  face  and  its  ex- 
pression, returned  the  scrutiny  of  the  one,  and  com- 
prehended the  meaning  of  the  other,  while  memory 
recalled  a  picture  once  held  in  his  hands,  some  things 
now  obscured  would  have  been  revealed  to  him,  and 
a  problem  been  solved.  As  it  was,  he  saw  nothing, 
moved  mechanically  onward  to  the  carriage,  seated 
himself,  and  said,  "  Home  !  " 

This  young  man  was  neither  presumptuous  nor 
vain.  He  had  been  once  repulsed  and  but  now  ut- 
terly rejected.     He  had  no  reason  to  hope,  and  yet  — • 


140  W/iat  Afiszverf 

perhaps  it  was  his  poetical  and  imaginative  tempera- 
ment—  he  could  not  resign  himself  to  despair. 

Suddenly  he  started  with  an  exclamation  that  was 
almost  a  ct)\  What  was  it  ?  He  remembered  that, 
more  than  two  years  ago,  on  the  last  day  he  had  been 
with  her,  he  had  begged  the  copy  of  a  duet  which 
they  sometimes  sang.  It  was  in  manuscript,  and  he 
desired  to  have  it  written  out  by  her  own  hand.  He 
had  before  petitioned,  and  she  promised  it ;  and  when 
he  thus  again  spoke  of  it,  she  laughed,  and  said,  "  What 
a  memory  it  is,  to  be  sure  !  I  shall  have  to  tie  a  bit 
of  string  on  my  finger  to  refresh  it." 

"  Is  that  efficacious  ? "  he  had  asked. 

"  Doubtless,"  she  had  replied,  searching  in  her 
pocket  for  a  scrap  of  anything  that  would  ser\-e. 

"  Will  this  do  ?  "  he  then  queried,  bringing  forth  a 
coil  of  gold  wire  which  he  had  been  commissioned  to 
buy  for  some  fanciful  work  of  his  mother. 

"  Finely,"  she  declared  ;  "  it  is  durable,  it  will  give 
me  a  wide  margin,  it  will  be  long  in  wearing  out." 

"  Nay,  then,  you  must  have  something  more  fragile," 
he  had  objected. 

At  that  they  both  laughed,  as  he  twisted  a  fragment 
of  it  on  the  little  finger  of  her  right  hand.  "  There 
it  is  to  stay,"  he  asserted,  "  till  your  promise  is  re- 
deemed." That  was  the  last  time  he  had  seen  her  till 
to-day. 


W/iai  Answer?  141 

Now,  sitting,  thinking  of  the  interview  just  passed, 
suddenly  he  remembered,  as  one  often  recalls  the 
vision  of  something  seemingly  unnoticed  at  the  time, 
that,  upon  her  right  hand,  the  little  finger  of  the  right 
hand,  there  was  a  delicate  ring,  —  a  mere  thrdad,  —  in 
fact,  a  wire  of  gold ;  the  very  one  himself  had  tied 
there  two  years  ago. 

In  an  instant,  by  one  of  those  inexplicable  connec- 
tions of  the  brain  or  soul,  he  found  himself  living  over 
an  experience  of  his  college  youth. 

He  had  been  spending  the  day  in  Boston  with  a 
dear  friend,  some  score  of  years  his  senior;  a  man  of 
the  rarest  culture,  and  of  a  most  sweet  and  gentle 
nature  withal ;  and  when  evening  came  they  had 
drifted  naturally  to  the  theatre,  —  the  fool's  paradise  it 
may  be  sometimes,  but  to  them  on  that  occasion  a 
real  paradise. 

He  remembered  well  the  play.  It  was  Scott's  Bride 
of  Lammermoor.  He  had  never  read  it,  but,  before 
the  curtain  rose,  his  friend  had  unfolded  the  stor^'  in 
so  kind  and  skilful  a  manner  as  to  have  imbued  him 
as  fully  with  the  spirit  of  the  tale  as  though  he  had 
studied  the  book. 

What  he  chiefly  recalled  in  the  play  was  the  scene 
in  which  Ravenswood  comes  back  to  Emily  long  after 
they  had  been  plighted,  —  long  after  he  had  supposed 
her  faithless, —  long  after  he  had  been  tossed  on  a  sea 


142  What  Answer? 

of  troubles,  touching  the  seeming  decay  in  her  affec- 
tions. Just  as  she  is  about  to  be  enveloped  in  the 
toils  which  were  spread  for  her,  —  just  as  she  is  about 
to  surrender  herself  to  the  hated  nuptials,  and  submit 
to  the  embrace  of  one  whom  she  loathed  more  than 
she  dreaded  death,  —  Ravenswood,  the  man  whom 
Heaven  had  made  for  her,  presents  himself. 

What  followed  was  quiet,  yet  intensely  dramatic. 
Ravenswood,  wrought  to  the  verge  of  despair,  bursts 
upon  the  scene  at  the  critical  moment,  detaches  Emily 
from  her  party,  and  leads  her  slowly  forward.  He  is 
unutterably  sad.  He  questions  her  very  tenderly ; 
asks  her  whether  she  is  not  enforced  ;  whether  she  is 
taking  this  step  of  her  own  free  will  and  accord  ; 
whether  she  has  indeed  dismissed  the  dear,  old  fond 
love  for  him  from  her  heart  forever  ?  He  must  hear 
it  from  her  own  lips.  When  timidly  and  feebly  in- 
formed that  such  is  indeed  the  case,  he  requests  her 
to  return  a  certain  memento,  —  a  silver  trinket  which 
had  been  given  her  as  the  symbol  of  his  love  on  the 
occasion  of  their  betrothal.  Raising  her  hand  to  her 
throat  she  essays  to  draw  it  from  her  bosom.  Her 
fingers  rest  upon  the  chain  which  binds  it  to  her 
neck,  but  the  o'erfraught  heart  is  still,  —  the  troubled, 
but  unconscious  head  droops  upon  his  shoulder,  —  he 
lifts  the  chain  from  its  resting-place,  and  withdraws  the 
token  from  her  heart. 


What  Ajiszuer?  143 

Supporting  her  with  one  hand  and  holding  this 
badge  of  a  lost  love  with  the  other,  he  says,  looking 
down  upon  her  with  a  face  of  anguish,  and  in  a  voice 
of  despair,  '■^  And  she  could  wear  it  thus  !  " 

As  this  scene  rose  and  lived  before  him,  Surrey  ex- 
claimed, "  Surely  that  must  have  been  the  perfection 
of  art,  to  have  produced  an  effect  so  lasting  and  pro- 
found, —  '  and  she  could  wear  it  thus  ! '  —  ah,"  he  said, 
as  in  response  to  some  unexpressed  thought,  "but 
Emily  loved  Ravenswood.  Why  —  ? "  Evidently  he 
was  endeavoring  to  answer  a  question  that  baffled 
him. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

"And  down  on  aching  heart  and  brain 
Blow  after  blow  unbroken  falls." 

BOKER. 

"  A  LETTER  for  you,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  as  Surrey 
-^^^  stopped  at  the  desk  for  his  key.  It  was  a 
bulky  epistle,  addressed  in  his  aunt  Russell's  hand, 
and  he  carried  it  off,  wondering  what  she  could  have 
to  say  at  such  length. 

He  was  in  no  mood  to  read  or  to  enjoy  ;  but,  never- 
theless, tore  open  the  cover,  finding  within  it  a  double 
letter.  Taking  the  envelope  of  one  from  the  folds  of 
the  other,  his  eye  fell  first  upon  his  mother's  writing ; 
a  short  note  and  a  puzzling  one. 

"  My  dear  Willie  :  — 

'*  I  have  tried  to  write  you  a  letter,  but  cannot.  I 
never  wounded  you  if  I  could  avoid  it,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  begin  now.  Augusta  and  I  had  a  talk  about 
you  yesterday  which  crazed  me  with  anxiety.  She 
told  me  it  was  my  place  to  write  you  what  ought  to  be 
said  under  these  trying  circumstances,  for  we  are  sure 
you  have  remained  in  Philadelphia  to  see  Miss  Ercil- 
doune.  At  first  I  said  I  would,  and  then  my  heart 
failed  me.     I  was  sure,  too,  that  she  could  wTite,  as 


W/ia^  Answer?  145 

she  always  does,  much  better  than  I ;  so  I  begged  her 

to  say  all  that  was  necessary,  and  I  would  send  her 

this  note  to  enclose  with  her  letter.    Read  it,  I  entreat 

you,  and  then  hasten,  I  pray  you,  hasten  to  us  at  once. 

"Take  care  of  your  arm,  do  not  hurt  yourself  by  any 

excitement ;  and,  with  dear  love  from  your  father,  which 

he  would  send  did  he  know  I  was  writing,  believe  me 

always  your  devoted 

"Mother." 

"  *  Trying  circumstances  ! '  — '  Miss  Ercildoune  ! '  — 
what  does  it  mean  ?  "  he  cried,  bewildered.  "  Come, 
let  us  see." 

The  letter  which  he  now  opened  was  an  old  and 
much-fingered  one,  written  —  as  he  saw  at  the  first 
glance  —  by  his  aunt  to  his  mother.  Why  it  was  sent 
to  him  he  could  not  conjecture ;  and,  without  attempt- 
ing to  so  do,  at  once  plunged  into  its  pages  :  — 

"  Continental  Hotel, 

Philadelphia,  June  27,  1861. 

"  My  dear  Laura  :  — 

"  I  can  readily  understand  with  what  astonishment 
you  will  read  this  letter,  from  the  amazement  I  have 
experienced  in  collecting  its  details.  I  will  not  weary 
you  with  any  personal  narration,  but  tell  my  tale  at 
once. 

"  Miss  Ercildoune,  as  you  know,  was  my  daughter's 
intimate  at  school,  —  a  school,  the  admittance  to  which 
7  J 


146  W/mi  Answer? 

was  of  itself  a  guarantee  of  respectability.  Of  course 
I  knew  nothing  of  her  family,  nor  of  her,  —  save  as 
Clara  wrote  me  of  her  beauty  ^and  her  accomplish- 
ments, and,  above  all,  of  her  style,  —  till  I  met  Mrs. 
Lancaster.  Of  her  it  is  needless  for  me  to  speak.  As 
you  know,  she  is  irreproachable,  and  her  position  is 
of  the  best.  Consequently  when  Clara  wrote  me  that 
her  friend  was  to  come  to  New  York  to  her  aunt,  and 
begged  to  entertain  her  for  a  while,  I  added  my  re- 
quest to  her  entreaty,  and  Miss  Ercildoune  came.  Ill- 
fated  visit !  would  it  had  never  been  made  ! 

"  It  is  useless  now  to  deny  her  gifts  and  graces. 
They  are,  reluctantly  I  confess,  so  rare  and  so  con- 
spicuous,—  have  so  many  times  been  seen,  and  known, 
and  praised  by  us  all,  —  that  it  would  put  me  in  the 
most  foolish  of  attitudes  should  I  attempt  to  recon- 
sider a  verdict  so  frequently  pronounced,  or  to  eat  my 
own  words,  uttered  a  thousand  times. 

"  It  is  also,  I  presume,  useless  to  deny  that  we  were 
well  pleased  —  nay,  delighted  —  with  Willie's  evident 
sentiment  for  her.  Indeed,  so  thoroughly  did  she 
charm  me,  that,  had  I  not  seen  how  absolutely  his 
heart  was  enlisted  in  her  pursuit,  she  is  the  very  girl 
whom  I  should  have  selected,  could  I  have  so  done,  as 
a  wife  for  Tom  and  a  daughter  for  myself. 

"  I  knew  full  well  how  deep  was  this  feeling  for  her 
when  he  marched  away,  on  that  day  so  full  of  supreme 


What  Answer  f  147 

splendor  and  pain,  unable  to  see  her  and  to  say  adieu. 
His  eyes,  his  face,  his  manner,  his  very  voice,  marked 
his  restlessness,  his  longing,  and  disappointment  I 
was  positively  angry  with  the  girl  for  thwarting  and 
hurting  him  so,  and,  whatever  her  excuse  might  be,  for 
her  absence  at  such  a  time.  How  constantly  are  we 
quarrelling  with  our  best  fates  ! 

"  She  remained  in  New  York,  as  you  know,  for 
some  weeks  after  the  19th ;  in  fact,  has  been  at  home 
but  for  a  little  while.  Once  or  twice,  so  provoked 
with  her  was  I  for  disappointing  our  pet,  I  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  saying  some  words  about  him 
which,  if  she  cared  for  him,  I  knew  would  wound  her  : 
and,  indeed,  they  did,  —  wounded  her  so  deeply,  as 
was  manifest  in  her  manner  and  her  face,  that  I  had 
not  the  heart  to  repeat  the  experiment. 

"  One  week  ago  I  had  a  letter  from  Willie,  enclos- 
ing another  to  her,  and  an  entreaty,  as  he  had  written 
one  which  he  was  sure  had  miscarried,  that  I  would 
see  that  this  reached  her  hands  in  safety.  So  anxious 
was  I  to  fulfil  his  request  in  its  word  and  its  spirit, 
and  so  certain  that  I  could  further  his  cause,  —  for  I 
was  sure  this  letter  was  a  love-letter,  —  that  I  did  not 
forward  it  by  post,  but,  being  compelled  to  come  to 
Burlington,  I  determined  to  go  on  to  Philadelphia, 
drive  out  to  her  home,  and  myself  deliver  the  missive 
into  her  very  hands.  A  most  fortunate  conclusion,  as 
you  will  presently  decide. 


148  What  Answer? 

"Last  evening  I  reached  the  city,  —  rested,  slept 
here,  —  and  this  morning  was  driven  to  her  father's 
place.  For  all  our  sakes,  I  was  somewhat  anxious, 
under  the  circumstances,  that  this  should  be  quite  the 
thing ;  and  I  confess  myself,  on  the  instant  of  its  sight, 
more  than  satisfied.  It  is  really  superb  !  —  the  grounds 
extensive,  and  laid  out  with  the  most  absolute  taste. 
The  house,  large  and  substantial,  looks  very  like  an 
English  mansion ;  with  a  certain  quaint  style  and 
antique  elegance,  refreshing  to  contemplate,  after  the 
crude  newness  and  ostentatious  vulgarity  of  almost 
everything  one  sees  here  in  America.  It  is  within  as 
it  is  without.  Although  a  great  many  lovely  things 
are  scattered  about  of  recent  make,  the  wood-work 
and  the  heavy  furniture  are  aristocratic  from  their  very 
age,  and,  in  their  way,  literally  perfection. 

"  Miss  Ercildoune  met  me  with  not  quite  her  usual 
grace  and  ease.  She  was,  no  doubt,  surprised  at  my 
unexpected  appearance,  and  —  I  then  thought,  as  a 
consequence  —  slightly  embarrassed.  I  soon  after- 
wards discovered  the  constraint  in  her  manner  sprang 
from  another  cause. 

"  I  had  reached  the  house  just  at  lunch-time,  and 
she  would  take  me  out  to  the  table  to  eat  something 
with  her.  I  had  hoped  to  see  her  father,  and  was  dis- 
appointed when  she  informed  me  he  was  in  the  city. 
All  I  saw  charmed  me.     The  appointments  of  the  ta- 


W/ia^  Answer?  149 

ble  were  like  those  of  the  house  :  everything  exquisite- 
ly fine,  and  the  silver  massive  and  old,  —  not  a  new 
piece  among  it,  —  and  marked  with  a  monogram  and 
crest. 

"  I  write  you  all  this  that  you  may  the  more  thorough- 
ly appreciate  my  absolute  horror  at  the  final  denoue- 
ment, and  share  my  astonishment  at  the  presumption 
of  these  people  in  daring  to  maintain  such  style. 

"  I  had  given  her  Willie's  letter  before  we  left  the  par- 
lor, with  a  significant  word  and  smile,  and  was  piqued 
to  see  that  she  did  not  blush,  —  in  fact,  became  ex- 
cessively white  as  she  glanced  at  the  writing,  and 
with  an  unsteady  hand  put  it  into  her  pocket.  After 
lunch  she  made  no  motion  to  look  at  it,  and  as  I  had 
my  own  reasons  for  desiring  her  to  peruse  it,  I  said, 
'  Miss  Francesca,  will  you  not  read  your  letter  ?  that  I 
may  know  if  there  is  any  later  news  from  our  soldier.' 

"  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said,  with  what  I 
thought  an  unnatural  manner,  '  Certainly,  if  you  so 
desire,'  and,  taking  it  out,  broke  the  seal.  '  Allow 
me,'  she  added,  going  towards  a  window,  —  as  though 
she  desired  more  light,  but  in  realit}^,  I  knew,  to  turn 
her  back  upon  me,  —  forgetting  that  a  mirror,  hang- 
ing opposite,  would  reveal  her  face  with  distinctness 
to  my  gaze. 

"  It  was  pale  to  ghastliness,  with  a  drawn,  haggard 
look  about  the  mouth  and  eyes  that  shocked  as  much 


150  W/iat  Answer? 

as  it  amazed  me  ;  and  before  commencing  to  read  she 
crushed  the  letter  in  her  hands,  pressing  it  to  her 
heart  with  a  gesture  which  was  less. of  a  caress  than 
of  a  spasm. 

"  However,  as  she  read,  all  this  changed  ;  and  before 
she  finished  I  said,  '  Ah,  Willie,  it  is  clear  your  cause 
needs  no  advocate.'  Positively,  I  did  not  know  a  hu- 
man countenance  could  express  such  happiness  ;  there 
was  something  in  it  absolutely  dazzling.  And  evi- 
dently entirely  forgetful  of  me,  she  raised  the  paper  to 
her  mouth,  and  kissed  it  again  and  again,  pressing 
her  lips  upon  it  with  such  clinging  and  passionate 
fondness  as  would  have  imbued  it  with  life  were 
that  possible." 

Here  WiUie  flung  down  his  aunt's  epistle  and  tore 
from  his  pocket  this  self-same  letter.  He  had  kept  it, 
—  carried  it  about  with  him,  —  for  two  reasons  :  be- 
cause it  was  hers,  he  said,  —  this  avowal  of  his  love 
was  hers,  whether  she  refused  it  or  no,  and  he  had  no 
right  to  destroy  her  propert}^ ;  and  because,  as  he  had 
nothing  else  she  had  worn  or  touched,  he  cherished 
this  sacredly  since  it  had  been  in  her  dear  hands. 

Now  he  took  it  into  his  clasp  as  tenderly  as  though 
it  were  Francesca's  face,  and  kissed  it  with  the  self- 
same clinging  and  passionate  fondness  as  this  of  which 
he  had  just  read.  Here  had  her  lips  rested,  —  here ; 
he  felt  their  fragrance  and  softness  thrilling  him  under 


What  Answer  1  151 

the  cold,  dead  paper,  and  pressed  it  to  his  heart  while 
he  continued  to  read  :  — 

"  Before  she  turned,  I  walked  to  another  window,  — 
wishing  to  give  her  time  to  recover  calmness,  or  at 
least  self-control,  —  and  was  at  once  absorbed  in  con- 
templating a  gentleman  whom  I  felt  assured  to  be  Mr. 
Ercildoune.  He  stood  with  his  back  to  me,  apparently 
giving  some  order  to  the  coachman  :  thus  I  could 
not  see  his  face,  but  I  never  before  was  so  impressed 
with,  so  to  speak,  the  personality  of  a  man.  His  phy- 
sique was  grand,  and  his  air  and  bearing  magnificent, 
and  I  watched  him  ^\ath  admiration  as  he  walked 
slowly  away.  I  presume  he  passed  the  window  at 
which  she.  was  standing,  for  she  called,  ^  Papa ! ' 
*  In  a  moment,  dear,'  he  answered,  and  in  a  moment 
entered,  and  was  presented  ;  and  I,  raising  my  eyes  to 
his  face,  —  ah,  how  can  I  tell  you  what  sight  they 
beheld  ! 

"  Self-possessed  as  I  think  I  am,  and  as  I  certainly 
ought  to  be,  I  started  back  with  an  involuntary  excla- 
mation, a  mingling  doubtless  of  incredulity  and  dis- 
gust. This  man,  who  stood  before  me  with  all  the 
ease  and  self-assertion  of  a  gentleman,  was  —  you 
will  never  believe  it,  I  fear  —  a  mulatto  I 

"  Whatever  effect  my  manner  had  on  him  was  not 
perceptible.  He  had  not  seated  himself,  and,  with 
a  smile   that  was   actually   satirical,   he  bowed,   ut- 


152  What  Answer? 

tered  a  few  words  of  greeting,  and  went  out  of  the 
room. 

"  *  How  dared  you  ? '  I  then  cried,  for  astonishment 
had  given  place  to  rage, '  how  dared  you  deceive  me  — 
deceive  us  all  —  so  ?  how  dared  you  palm  yourself  off 
as  white  and  respectable,  and  thus  be  admitted  to  Mr. 
Hale's  school  and  to  the  society  and  companionship 
of  his  pupils  ? '  I  could  scarcely  control  myself  when 
I  thought  of  how  shamefully  we  had  all  been  cozened. 

"'Pardon  me,  madam,'  she  answered  with  effron- 
tery,—  effrontery  under  the  circumstances,  —  *you 
forget  yourself,  and  what  is  due  from  one  lady  to 
another.'  (Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  presumption  ! ) 
*I  practised  no  deceit  upon  Professor  Hale.  He 
knew  papa  well,  — was  his  intimate  friend  at  college,  in 
England,  —  and  was  perfectly  aware  who  was  Mr.  Ercil- 
doune's  daughter  when  she  was  admitted  to  his  school. 
For  myself,  I  had  no  confessions  to  make,  and  made 
none.  I  was  your  daughter's  friend  ;  as  such,  went  to 
her  house,  and  invited  her  here.  I  trust  you  have 
seen  in  me  nothing  unbecoming  a  gentlewoman,  as,  uj> 
to  this  tifne,  I  have  beheld  in  you  naught  save  the  attri- 
butes of  a  lady.  If  we  are  to  have  any  farther  conver- 
sation, it  must  be  conducted  on  the  old  plan,  and  not 
the  extraordinary  one  you  have  just  adopted;  else  I 
shall  be  compelled,  in  self-respect,  to  leave  you  alone 
in  my  own  parlor.' 


What  Answer?  153 

"  Imagine  if  you  can  the  effect  of  this  speech  upon 
me.  I  assure  you  I  was  composed  enough  outwardly, 
if  not  inwardly,  ere  she  ended  her  sentence.  Having 
finished,  I  said,  '  Pardon  me,  Miss  Ercildoune,  for  any 
words  which  may  have  offended  your  dignity.  I  will 
confine  myself  for  the  rest  of  our  interview  to  your  own 
rules.' 

" '  It  is  well,'  she  responded.  I  had  spoken  sa- 
tirically, and  expected  to  see  her  shrink  under  it,  but 
she  answered  with  perfect  coolness  and  sang  froid.  I 
continued,  '  You  will  not  deny  that  you  are  a  negro,  at 
least  a  mulatto.' 

"  '  Pardon  me,  madam,'  she  replied  ;  ^  my  father  is 
a  mulatto,  my  mother  was  an  Englishwoman.  Thus, 
to  give  you  accurate  information  upon  the  subject,  I 
am  a  quadroon.' 

"  '  Quadroon  be  it ! '  I  answered,  angrily  again,  I 
fear.  '  Quadroon,  mulatto,  or  negro,  it  is  all  one.  I 
have  no  desire  to  split  hairs  of  definition.  You  could 
not  be  more  obnoxious  were  you  black  as  Erebus.  I 
have  no  farther  words  to  pass  upon  the  past  or  the 
present,  but  something  to  say  of  the  future.  You  hold 
in  your  hands  a  letter — a  love-letter,  I  am  sure  —  a 
declaration,  as  I  fear  —  from  my  nephew,  Mr.  Surrey. 
You  will  oblige  me  by  at  once  sitting  down,  writing  a 
peremptoiy  and  unqualified  refusal  to  his  proposal,  if 
he  has  made  you  one, — a  refusal  that  will  admit  of  no 
7* 


154  W/iat  Answer? 

hope  and  no  double  interpretation,  —  and  give  it  into 
my  keeping  before  I  leave  this  room.' 

"When  I  first  alluded  to  Willie's  letter  she  had 
crimsoned,  but  before  I  closed  she  was  so  white  I 
should  have  thought  her  fainting,  but  for  the  fire  in  her 
eyes.  However,  she  spoke  up  clear  enough  when  she 
said,  '  And  what,  madam,  if  I  deny  your  right  to  dic- 
tate any  action  whatever  to  me,  however  insignificant, 
and  utterly  refuse  to  obey  your  command  ? ' 

" '  At  your  peril  do  so,'  I  exclaimed.  *  Refuse, 
and  I  will  write  the  whole  shameful  story,  with  my  own 
comments  ;  and  you  may  judge  for  yourself  of  the 
effect  it  will  produce.' 

"At  that  she  smiled,  —  an  indescribable  sort  of 
smile,  —  and  shut  her  fingers  on  the  letter  she  held, 
—  I  could  not  help  thinking  as  though  it  were  a 
human  hand.  '  Ver)^  well,  madam,  \mte  it.  He  has 
already  told  me ' — 

" '  That  he  loves  you,'  I  broke  in.  '  Do  you 
think  he  would  continue  to  do  so  if  he  knew  what 
you  are  ? ' 

" '  He  knows  me  as  well  now,'  she  answered,  '  as  he 
will  after  reading  any  letter  of  yours.' 

"  '  Incredible  ! '  I  exclaimed.  '  When  he  wrote  you 
that,  he  did  not  know,  he  could  not  have  known,  your 
birth,  your  race,  the  taint  in  your  blood.  I  will  never 
believe  it.' 


What  Answer?  155 

" '  No,'  she  said,  '  I  did  not  say  he  did.  I  said 
he  knew  me;  so  well,  I  think,  judging  from  this,'  — 
clasping  his  letter  with  the  same  curious  pressure  I 
had  before  noticed,  — '  that  you  could  scarcely  en- 
lighten him  farther.  He  knows  my  heart,  and  soul, 
and  brain,  —  as  I  said,  he  knows  me' 

" '  O,  yes,'  I  answered,  —  or  rather  sneered,  for  I 
was  uncontrollably  indignant  through  all  this,  —  '  if 
you  mean  that,  very  likely.  I  am  not  talking  lovers' 
metaphysics,  but  practical  common-sense.  He  does 
not  know  the  one  thing  at  present  essential  for  him  to 
know ;  and  he  will  abandon  you,  spurn  you,  —  his  love 
turned  to  scorn,  his  passion  to  contempt,  —  when  he 
reads  what  I  shall  write  him  if  you  refuse  to  do  what  I 
demand.' 

"  I  expected  to  see  her  cower  before  me.  Conceive, 
then,  if  you  can,  my  sensations  when  she  cried,  '  Stop, 
madam  !  Say  what  you  will  to  me ;  insult,  outrage  me, 
if  you  please,  and  have  not  the  good  breeding  and 
dignity  to  forbear ;  but  do  not  presume  to  so  slander 
him.  Do  not  presume  to  accuse  him,  who  is  all  nobil- 
ity and  greatness  of  soul,  of  a  sentiment  so  base,  a 
prejudice  so  infamous.  Study  him,  madam,  know 
him  better,  ere  you  attempt  to  be  his  mouth-piece.' 

"  As  she  uttered  these  words,  a  horrible  foreboding 
seized  me,  or,  to  speak  more  truthfully,  I  so  felt  the 
certainty  of  what  she  spoke,  that  a  shudder  of  terror 


156  What  Answer? 

ran  over  me.  I  thought  of  him,  of  his  character,  of 
his  principles,  of  his  insane  sense  of  honor,  of  his  ter- 
rible will  under  all  that  soft  exterior,  —  the  hand  of 
steel  under  the  silken  glove ;  I  saw  that  if  I  persisted 
and  she  still  refused  to  yield  I  should  lose  all.  On  the 
instant  I  changed  my  attack. 

"  *  It  is  true,'  I  said,  '  having  asked  you  to  become 
his  wife,  he  will  many-  you  ;  he  will  redeem  his  pledge 
though  it  ruin  his  life  and  blast  his  career,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  effect  an  unending  series  of  outrages 
and  mortifications  will  have  upon  his  temper  and  his 
heart.  A  pretty  love,  truly,  yours  must  be,  —  what- 
ever his  is,  —  to  condemn  him  to  so  terrible  an  ordeal, 
so  frightful  a  fate.' 

"  She  shivered  at  that,  and  I  went  on,  —  blaming 
my  folly  in  not  remembering,  being  a  woman,  that  it 
was  with  a  woman  and  her  weakness  I  had  to  deal. 

"  '  He  is  young,'  I  continued  ;  '  he  has  probably  a 
long  life  before  him.  Rich,  handsome,  brilliant,  —  a 
magnificent  career  opening  to  him,  —  position,  ease, 
troops  of  friends,  —  you  will  ruthlessly  ruin  all  this. 
Married  to  you,  white  as  you  are,  the  peculiarity  of 
your  birth  would  in  some  way  be  speedily  known.  His 
father  would  disinherit  him  (it  was  not  necessary  to 
tell  her  he  has  a  fortune  in  his  o\^n  right),  his 
family  disown  him,  his  friends  abandon  him,  so- 
ciety  close  its  doors   upon  him,    business  refuse   to 


What  Answer?  157 

seek  him,  honor  and  riches  elude  his  grasp.  If 
you  do  not  know  the  strength  of  this  prejudice,  which 
you  call  infamous,  pre-eminently  in  the  circle  to  which 
he  belongs,  I  cannot  tell  it  you.  Taking  all  this  from 
him,  what  will  you  give  him  in  return  ?  Ruining  his 
life,  can  your  affection  make  amends  ?  Blasting  his 
career,  will  your  love  fill  the  gap  ?  Do  you  flatter 
yourself  by  the  supposition  that  you  can  be  father, 
mother,  relatives,  friends,  society,  wealth,  position, 
honor,  career,  —  all,  —  to  him  ?  Your  people  are  cursed 
in  America,  and  they  transfer  their  curse  to  any  one 
mad  enough,  or  generous  enough  (that  was  a  diplo- 
matic turn),  to  connect  his  fate  with  yours.' 

"  Before  I  was  through,  I  saw  that  I  had  carried 
my  point.  All  the  fine  airs  went  out  of  my  lady, 
and  she  looked  broken  and  humbled  enough.  I 
might  have  said  less,  but  I  ached  to  say  more  to 
the  insolent. 

" '  Enough,  madam,'  she  gasped,  '  stop.'  And 
then  said,  more  to  herself  than  to  me,  '  I  could  give 
heaven  for  him,'  —  the  rest  I  rather  guessed  from  the 
motion  of  her  lips  than  from  any  sound,  — '  but  I  can- 
not ask  him  to  give  the  world  for  me.' 

"  *  Will  you  write  the  letter  ? '  I  asked. 

" '  No.'  —  She  said  the  word  with  evident  effort,  and 
then,  still  more  slowly,  *I  will  give  you  a  mes- 
sage.    Say,  "  I  implore  you  never  to  write  me  again,  — 


158  What  Answer? 

to  forget  me.  I  beseech  of  you  not  to  try  me  by  any 
farther  appeals,  as  I  shall  but  return  them  unopened.'" 
I  wrote  down  the  words  as  she  spoke  them.  '  This  is 
well,'  I  said,  when  she  finished  ;  '  but  it  is  not  enough. 
I  must  have  the  letter.' 

"  'The  letter  ? '  she  said.  '  What  need  of  a  letter  ? 
surely  that  is  sufficient.' 

" '  I  do  not  mean  your  letter.  I  mean  his,  — the  one 
which  you  hold  in  your  hands.' 

"  ^  This  ? '  she  queried,  looking  down  on  it,  — '  this  ?' 

"  I  thought  the  repetition  senseless  and  affected,  but 
I  answered,  'Yes, — that.  He  will  not  believe  you 
are  in  earnest  if  you  keep  his  avowal  of  love.  You 
must  give  him  up  entirely.  If  you  let  me  send  that 
back,  with  your  words,  he  shall  never  —  at  least  from 
me  —  have  clew  or  reason  for  your  conduct.  That 
will  close  the  whole  affair.' 

" '  Close  the  whole  affair ,'  she  repeated  after  me, 
mechanically,  —  'close  the  whole  affair.' 

"  I  was  getting  heartily  tired  of  this,  and  had  no 
desire  to  listen  to  an  echo  conversation ;  so,  without 
answering,  I  stretched  out  my  hand  for  it.  She  held 
it  towards  me,  then  drew  it  back  and  raised  it  to  her 
heart  with  the  same  gesture  I  had  marked  when  she 
first  opened  it,  — a  gesture  as  I  said,  of  that,  which  was 
less  of  a  caress  than  a  spasm.  Indeed,  I  think  now 
that  it  was  wholly  physical  and  involuntary.     Then  she 


IV/iat  A  nswer  f  159 

handed  it  to  me,  and,  motioning  towards  the  door,  said, 
'Go!' 

"  I  rose,  and,  infamous  as  I  thought  her  past  de- 
ceit, wearied  as  I  was  with  the  inter^dew,  small  claim 
as  she  had  upon  me  for  the  slightest  consideration,  I 
said  '  You  have  done  w^ell,  Miss  Ercildoune !  I 
commend  you  for  your  sensible  decision,  and  for  your 
ability,  if  late,  to  appreciate  the  situation.  I  wish  you 
all  success  in  life,  I  am  sure  ;  and,  permit  me  to  add, 
a  future  union  with  one  of  your  own.  race,  if  that  will 
bring  you  happiness.' 

"  Heavens  !  what  a  face  and  what  eyes  she  turned 
upon  me  as,  rising,  she  once  more  pointed  to  the  door, 
and  cried,  '  Go ! '  And  indeed  I  went,  —  the  girl  ac- 
tually frightened  me. 

"  When  I  got  on  to  the  lawn,  I  missed  my  bag  and 
parasol,  and  had  to  return  for  them.  I  opened  the 
door  with  some  slight  trepidation,  but  had  no  need  for 
fear.  She  was  lying  prostrate  upon  the  floor,  as  I 
saw  on  coming  near,  in  a  dead  faint.  She  had  evi- 
dently fallen  so  suddenly  and  with  such  force  as  to 
have  hurt  herself ;  her  head  had  struck  against  an  or- 
nament of  the  bookcase,  near  which  she  had  been 
standing ;  and  a  little  stream  of  blood  was  trickling 
from  her  temple.  It  made  me  sick  to  behold  it.  As 
I  looked  at  her  where  she  lay,  I  could  not  but  pity  her 
a  little,  and  think  what  a  merciful  fate  it  would  be  for 


1 60  IV/iat  A  nswer  ? 

her,  and  such  as  she,  if  they  could  all  die,  —  and  so 
put  an  end  to  what,  I  presume,  though  I  never  before 
thought  of  it,  is  really  a  very  hard  existence. 

"  It  was  no  time,  however,  to  sentimentalize.  1 
rang  for  a  servant,  and,  having  waited  till  one  came, 
took  my  leave. 

"  Of  course  all  this  is  very  shocking  and  painful,  but 

I  am  glad  I  came.     The  matter  is  ended  now  in  a 

satisfactory  manner.     I  think  it  has  been  well  done. 

Let  us  both  keep  our  counsel,  and  the  affair  will  soon 

become  a  memory  with  us,  as  it  is  nothing  with  every 

one  else. 

"  Always  your  lo\ang  sister, 

"  Augusta." 

It  is  better  to  be  silent  upon  some  themes  than  to 
say  too  little.  Words  would  fail  to  express  the  emo- 
tions with  which  Willie  read  this  history :  let  silence 
and  imagination  tell  the  tale. 

Flinging  down  the  paper  with  a  passionate  cr}',  he 
saw  yet  another  letter,  —  the  one  in  which  these  had 
been  enfolded,  —  a  letter  written  to  him,  and  by  Mrs. 
Russell.  As  by  a  flash,  he  perceived  that  there  had 
been  some  blunder  here,  by  which  he  was  the  gainer ; 
and,  partly  at  least,  comprehended  it. 

These  two,  mother  and  aunt,  fearing  the  old  fire 
had  not  3'et  burned  to  ashes,  —  nay,  from  their  knowl- 
edge of  him,  sure  of  it,  —  hearing  naught  of  his  illness, 


What  A  nswer  ?  1 6 1 

for  he  did  not  care  to  distress  them  by  any  account 
thereof,  were  satisfied  that  he  had  either  met,  or  was 
remaining  to  compass  a  meeting,  with  Miss  Ercildoune. 
His  mother  had  not  the  courage,  or  the  baseness,  to 
A\Tite  such  a  letter  as  that  to  which  Mrs.  Russell  urged 
her,  —  a  letter  which  should  degrade  his  love  in  his 
own  eyes,  and  recall  him  from  an  unworthy  pursuit. 
"  Very  well !  "  ]\Irs.  Russell  had  then  said,  "  it  will 
be  better  from  you ;  it  will  look  more  like  unwarranted 
interference  from  me ;  but  I  will  write,  and  you  shall 
send  an  accompanying  line.  Let  me  have  it  to- 
morrow." 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Surrey  was  not  well  enough 
to  drive  out,  and  thus  sent  her  note  by  a  servant,  en- 
closing with  it  the  letter  of  June  27th,  —  thinking  that 
her  sister  might  want  it  for  reference.  When  it 
reached  Mrs.  Russell,  it  was  almost  mail-time,  and 
with  the  simple  thought,  "  So,  —  Laura  has  written  it, 
after  all,"  she  enclosed  it  in  her  own,  and  sent  it  off, 
post-haste  ;  not  even  looking  at  the  unsealed  envelope, 
as  Mrs.  Surrey  had  taken  for  granted  she  would,  and 
thus  failing  to  know  of  its  double  contents. 

Thus  the  very  letter  which  they  would  have  com- 
passed land  and  sea  to  have  prevented  coming  under 
his  eyes,  unwisely  yet  most  fortunately  kept  in  exist- 
ence, was  sent  by  themselves  to  his  hands. 

Without  pausing  to  read  a  line  of  that  which  his 

K 


1 62  What  A  nswer  ? 

aunt  had  written  him,  he  tore  it  into  fragments,  flung 
it  into  the  empty  grate  ;  and,  bounding  down  the  stairs 
and  on  to  the  street,  plunged  into  a  carriage  and  was 
whirled  away,  all  too  slowly,  to  the  home  he  had  left 
but  a  little  space  before  with  such  widely,  such  pain- 
fully different  emotions. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


'  I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much. 
Loved  I  not  honor  more." 

Lovelace. 


JUST  after  Surrey,  for  the  third  time,  had  passed 
through  the  avenue  of  trees,  two  men  appeared  in 
it,  earnestly  conversing.  One,  the  older,  was  the  same 
who  had  met  Willie  as  he  was  going  out,  and  had 
examined  him  with  such  curious  interest.  The  other, 
in  feature,  form,  and  bearing,  was  so  absolutely  the 
counterpart  of  his  companion  that  it  was  easy  to 
recognize  in  them  father  and  son,  —  a  father  and  son 
whom  it  would  be  hard  to  match.  "  The  finest  type 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  I  have  seen  from  America," 
was  the  verdict  pronounced  upon  Mr.  Ercildoune, 
when  he  was  a  young  man  studying  abroad,  by  an 
enthusiastic  and  nationally  ignorant  Englishman ; 
"but  then,  sir,"  he  added,  "what  very  dark  complex- 
ions you  Americans  have !     Is  it  universal  ?  " 

"  By  no  means,  sir,"  was  Mr.  Ercildoune's  reply. 
"  There  are  some  exceedingly  fine  ones  among  my 
countrymen.  I  come  from  the  South  :  that  is  a  bad 
chmate  for  the  tint  of  the  skin." 


164  W/iai  Answer? 

"  Is  it  so  ? "  exclaimed  John  Bull,  —  "  worse  than 
the  North  ? " 

"  Very  much  worse,  sir,  in  more  ways  than  one." 

Perhaps  Robert  Ercildoune  was  a  trifle  fairer  than 
his  father,  but  there  was  still  perceptible  the  shade 
which  marked  him  as  effectually  an  outcast  from  the 
freedom  of  American  society,  and  the  rights  of  Ameri- 
can citizenship,  as  though  it  had  been  the  badge  of 
crime  or  the  strait  jacket  of  a  madman.  Something 
of  this  was  manifested  in  the  conversation  in  which 
the  two  were  engaged. 

"  It  is  folly,  Robert,  for  you  to  carr}-  your  refinement 
and  culture  into  the  ranks  as  a  common  soldier,  to 
fight  and  to  die,  without  thanks.  You  are  made  of  too 
good  stuff  to  ser\'e  simply  as  food  for  powder." 

"Better  men  than  I,  father,  have  gone  there,  and 
are  there  to-day ;  men  in  every  way  superior  to  me." 

"  Perhaps,  —  yes,  if  you  will  have  it  so.  But  what 
are  they  ?  white  men,  fighting  for  their  own  country 
and  flag,  for  their  own  rights  of  manhood  and 
citizenship,  for  a  present  for  themselves  and  a 
future  for  their  children,  for  honor  and  fame.  What 
is  there  for  you  ?  " 

"  For  one  thing,  just  that  of  which  you  spoke.  Per- 
haps not  a  present  for  me,  but  certainly  a  future  for 
those  that  come  after." 

"  A  future  !    How  are  you  to  know  ?  what  warrant  or 


What  Answer?  165 

guarantee  have  you  for  any  such  future  ?  Do  you  judge 
by  the  past  ?  by  the  signs  of  to-day  ?  I  tell  you  this 
American  nation  will  resort  to  any  means  —  will  pledge 
anything,  by  word  or  implication  —  to  secure  the  end 
for  which  it  fights  ;  and  will  break  its  pledges  just  so 
soon  as  it  can,  and  with  whomsoever  it  can  with  im- 
punity. You,  and  your  children,  and  your  children's 
children  after  you,  will  go  to  the  wall  unless  it  has  need 
of  you  in  the  arena." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  This  whole  nation  is  learning, 
through  pain  and  loss,  the  lesson  of  justice ;  of  ex- 
pediency, doubtless,  but  still  of  justice  \  and  I  do 
not  think  it  will  be  forgotten  when  the  war  is  ended. 
This  is  our  time  to  wipe  off  a  thousand  stigmas  of  con- 
tempt and  reproach  :  this"  — 

"Who  is  responsible  for  them?  ourselves?  What 
cast  them  there  ?  our  own  actions  ?  I  trow  not.  Mark 
the  facts.  I  pay  taxes  to  support  the  public  schools, 
and  am  compelled  to  have  my  children  educated  at 
home.  I  pay  taxes  to  support  the  government,  and 
am  denied  any  representation  or  any  voice  in  regard 
to  the  manner  in  which  these  taxes  shall  be  expended. 
I  hail  a  car  on  the  street,  and  am  laughed  to  scorn  by 
the  conductor,  —  or,  admitted,  at  the  order  of  the  pas- 
sengers am  ignominiously  expelled.  I  offer  my  money 
at  the  door  of  any  place  of  public  amusement,  and  it 
is  flung  back  to  me  with  an  oath.     I  enter  a  train  to 


1 66  What  Answer? 

New  York,  and  am  banished  to  the  rear  seat  or  the 
*  negro  car.'  I  go  to  a  hotel,  open  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  public,  and  am  denied  access ;  or  am  re- 
quested to  keep  my  room,  and  not  show  myself  in 
parlor,  office,  or  at  table.  I  come  within  a  church,  to 
worship  the  good  God  who  is  no  respecter  of  persons, 
and  am  shown  out  of  the  door  by  one  of  his  insolent 
creatures.  I  carry  my  intelligence  to  the  polls  on 
election  morning,  and  am  elbowed  aside  by  an 
American  boor  or  a  foreign  drunkard,  and,  with  oppro- 
brious epithets  by  law  officers  and  rabble,  am  driven 
away.  All  this  in  the  North  ;  all  this  without  excuse 
of  slavery  and  of  the  feeling  it  engenders  ;  all  this 
from  arrogant  hatred  and  devilish  malignity.  At  last, 
the  country  which  has  disowned  me,  the  government 
which  has  never  recognized  save  to  outrage  me,  the 
flag  which  has  refused  to  cover  or  to  protect  me,  are 
in  dire  need  and  utmost  extremity.  Then  do  they  cry 
for  me  and  mine  to  come  up  to  their  help  ere  they  perish. 
At  least,  they  hold  forth  a  bribe  to  secure  me  ?  at 
least,  if  they  make  no  apology  for  the  past,  they  offer 
compensation  for  the  future  ?  at  least,  they  bid  high 
for  the  services  they  desire  ?     Not  at  all ! 

"  They  say  to  one  man,  '  Here  is  twelve  hundred 
dollars  bounty  with  which  to  begin  ;  here  is  sixteen 
dollars  a  month  for  pay  ;  here  is  the  law  passed,  and 
the  money  pledged,  to  secure  you  in  comfort  for  the 


What  Answer?  167 

rest  of  life,  if  wounded  or  disabled,  or  help  for 
your  family,  if  killed.  Here  is  every  door  set  wide 
for  you  to  rise,  from  post  to  post ;  money  yours,  ad- 
vancement yours,  honor,  and  fame,  and  glory  yours  ; 
the  love  of  a  grateful  country,  the  applause  of  an  ad- 
miring world.' 

"  They  say  to  another  man,  — you,  or  me,  or  Sam 
out  there  in  the  field,  —  '  There  is  no  bounty  for  you, 
not  a  cent ;  there  is  pay  for  you,  twelve  dollars  a 
month,  the  hire  of  a  servant ;  there  is  no  pension 
for  you,  or  your  family,  if  you  be  sent  back  from  the 
front,  wounded  or  dead  ;  if  you  are  taken  prisoner 
you  can  be  murdered  with  impunity,  or  be  sold  as  a 
slave,  without  interference  on  our  part.  Fight  like  a 
lion !  do  acts  of  courage  and  splendor!  and  you  shall 
never  rise  above  the  rank  of  a  private  soldier.  For 
you  there  is  neither  money  nor  honor,  rights  secur- 
ed, nor  fame  gained.  Dying,  you  fall  into  a  nameless 
grave  :  living,  you  come  back  to  your  old  estate  of 
insult  and  wrong.  If  you  refuse  these  tempting  offers, 
we  brand  you  cowards.  If,  under  these  infamous  re- 
straints and  disadvantages,  you  fail  to  equal  the  white 
troops  by  your  side,  you  are  written  down  —  inferiors. 
If  you  equal  them,  you  are  still  inferiors.  If  you  per- 
form miracles,  and  surpass  them,  you  are,  in  a  measure, 
worthy  commendation  at  last ;  we  consent  to  see  in 
you  human  beings,  fit  for  mention  and  admiration,  — 


1 68  What  Answer  f 

not  as  types  of  your  color  and  of  what  you  intrinsically 
are,  but  as  exceptions ;  made  such  by  the  habit  of 
association,  and  the  force  of  surrounding  circum- 
stances.' 

"These  are  the  terms  the  American  people  offer 
you,  these  the  terms  which  you  stoop  to  accept,  these 
the  proofs  that  they  are  learning  a  lesson  of  justice! 
So  be  it  !  there  is  need.  Let  them  learn  it  to  the 
full  !  let  this  war  go  on  '  Until  the  cities  be  wasted 
without  inhabitant,  and  the  houses  without  man,  and 
the  land  be  utterly  destroyed.'  Do  not  you  interfere. 
Leave  them  to  the  teachings  and  the  judgments  of 
God." 

Ercildoune  had  spoken  with  such  impassioned  feel- 
ing, with  such  fire  in  his  eyes,  such  terrible  earnest- 
ness in  his  voice,  that  Robert  could  not,  if  he 
would,  interrupt  him  ;  and,  in  the  silence,  found  no 
words  for  the  instant  at  his  command.  Ere  he  sum- 
moned them  they  saw  some  one  approaching. 

"  A  fine-looking  fellow^ !  fighting  has  been  no  child's 
play  for  him,"  said  Robert,  looking,  as  he  spoke,  at 
the  empty  sleeve. 

Mr.  Ercildoune  advanced  to  meet  the  stranger,  and 
Surrey  beheld  the  same  face  upon  whose  pictured  sem- 
blance he  had  once  gazed  with  such  intense  feelings, 
first  of  jealousy,  and  then  of  relief  and  admiration  ;  the 
same  splendor  of  life,  and  beauty,  and  vitality.     Surrey 


W/iai  Answer?  169 

knew  him  at  once,  knew  that  it  was  Francesca's 
father,  and  went  up  to  him  with  extended  hand.  Mr. 
Ercildoune  took  the  proffered  hand,  and  shook  it 
warmly.     "  I  am  happy  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Surrey." 

"  You  know  me  ? "  said  he  with  surprise.  "  I 
thought  to  present  myself." 

"I  have  seen  your  picture," 

"And  I  yours.  They  must  have  held  the  mirror 
up  to  nature,  for  the  originals  to  be  so  easily  known. 
But  may  I  ask  where  you  saw  mine  ?  yours  was  in 
Miss  Ercildoune's  possession." 

"  As  was  yours,"  was  answered  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  —  Surrey  thought,  wdth  visible  reluctance. 
His  heart  flew  into  his  throat.  "She  has  my  picture, 
—  she  has  spoken  of  me,"  he  said  to  himself  "  I 
wonder  what  her  father  will  think,  —  what  he  will  do. 
Come,  I  will  to  the  point  immediately." 

"  Mr.  Ercildoune,"  said  he,  aloud,  "  you  know  some- 
thing of  me  ?  of  my  position  and  prospects  .'* " 

"  A  great  deal." 

"  I  trust,  nothing  disparaging  or  ignoble." 

"  I  know  nothing  for  which  any  one  could  desire 
oblivion." 

"  Thanks.  Let  me  speak  to  you,  then,  of  a  matter 
which  should  have  been  long  since  proposed  to  you 
had  I  been  permitted  the  opportunity.  I  love  your 
daughter.     I  cannot  speak  about  that,  but  you  will  un- 


170  JJVmf  Ansiver? 

derstand  all  that  I  wish  to  say.  I  have  twice  —  once 
by  letter,  once  by  speech  —  let  her  know  this  and  my 
desire  to  call  her  wife.  She  has  twice  refused,  —  abso- 
lutely.    You  think  this  should  cut  off  all  hope  ? " 

Ercildoune  had  been  watching  him  closely.  "  If 
she  does  not  love  you,"  he  answered,  at  the  pause. 

"  I  do  not  knovv^  I  went  away  from  here  a  little 
while  ago  with  her  peremptory  command  not  to  return. 
I  should  not  have  dared  disobey  it  had  I  not  learned 
—  thought  —  in  fact,  but  for  some  circumstances  — 
I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  saying. 
I  believed  if  I  saw  her  once  more  I  could  change  her 
determination,  —  could  induce  her  to  give  me  another 
response,  —  and  came  with- that  hope." 

"\\niich  has  failed?" 

"  ^Vhich  has  thus  far  failed  that  she  will  not  at  all 
see  me ;  will  hold  no  communication  with  me.  I 
should  be  a  ruffian  did  I  force  myself  on  her  thus  with- 
out excuse  or  reason.  My  own  love  would  be  no 
apolog}'  did  I  not  think,  did  I  not  dare  to  hope,  that 
it  is  not  aversion  to  me  that  induces  her  to  act  as  she 
has  done.  Believing  so,  may  I  beg  a  favor  of  you  ? 
may  I  entreat  that  you  v/ill  induce  her  to  see  me,  if 
only  for  a  little  while  ?  " 

Ercildoune  smiled  a  sad,  bitter  smile,  as  he  an- 
swered, "  jNIr.  Surrey,  if  my  daughter  does  not  love 
you,  it  vrould  be  hopeless  for  you  or  for  me  to  assail 


What  Aiiswer?  171 

her  refusal.  If  she  does,  she  has  doubtless  rejected 
you  for  a  reason  which  you  can  read  by  simply  looking 
into  my  face.  No  words  of  mine  can  destroy  or  do 
that  away." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  destroy  ;  there  is  nothing  to 
do  away.  Thank  you  for  speaking  of  it,  and  making 
the  way  easy.  There  is  nothing  in  all  the  wide  world 
between  us,  —  there  can  be  nothing  between  us, — if 
she  loves  me  ;  nothing  to  keep  us  apart  save  her  in- 
difference or  lack  of  regard  for  me,  I  want  to  say  so 
to  her  if  she  will  give  me  the  chance.  Will  you  not 
help  me  to  it  ?  " 

"  You  comprehend  all  that  I  mean  ?  " 

"  I  do.  It  is,  as  I  have  said,  nothing.  That  love 
would  not  be  worth  the  telling  that  considered  extra- 
neous circumstances,  and  not  the  object  itself." 

"  You  have  counted  all  the  consequences  .'*  I  think 
not.  How,  indeed,  should  you  be  able  %  Come  with 
me  a  moment."  The  two  went  up  to  the  house,  across 
the  wide  veranda,  into  a  room  half  library,  half  loung- 
ing-room,  which,  from  a  score  of  evidences  strewn 
around,  was  plainly  the  special  resort  of  the  master. 
Over  the  mantel  hung  the  life-size  portrait  of  an  ex- 
cessively beautiful  woman.  A  fine,  spirituelle  face, 
with  proud  lines  around  the  mouth  and  delicate  nog- 
trils,  but  with  a  tender,  appealing  look  in  the  eyes, 
that  claimed  gentle  treatment,     This  face  said;  ^'I  was 


172  W/iat  Answer  f 

made  for  sunshine  and  balmy  airs,  but,  if  darkness 
and  storm  assail,  I  can  walk  through  them  unflinching, 
though  the  progress  be  short ;  I  can  die,  and  give 
no  sign."  Willie  went  hastily  up  to  this,  and  stood, 
absorbed,  before  it.  "  Francesca  is  very  like  her 
mother,"  said  Ercildoune,  coming  to  his  side.  It  was 
his  own  thought,  but  he  made  no  answer. 

"  I  will  tell  you  something  of  her  and  myself;  a  very 
little  story ;  you  can  draw  the  moral.  My  father, 
who  was  a  Virginian,  sent  my  brother  and  me  to  Eng- 
land when  we  were  mere  boys,  to  be  trained  and  edu- 
cated. After  his  fashion,  doubtless,  he  loved  us  ;  for 
he  saw  that  we  had  every  advantage  that  wealth,  and 
taste,  and  care  could  provide ;  and  though  he  never 
sent  for  us,  nor  came  to  us,  in  all  the  years  after  we 
left  his  house,  —  and  though  we  had  no  legal  claim 
upon  him,  —  he  acknowledged  us  his  children,  and 
left  us  the  entire  proceeds  of  his  immense  estates,  un- 
incumbered. We  were  so  young  when  we  went 
abroad,  had  been  so  tenderly  treated  at  home,  had 
seen  and  known  so  absolutely  nothing  of  the  society 
about  us,  that  we  were  ignorant  as  Arabs  of  the  state 
of  feeling  and  prejudice  in  America  against  such  as 
we,  who  carried  any  trace  of  negro  blood.  Our  treat- 
ment in  England  did  but  increase  this  oblivion. 

"  We  gTaduated  at  Oxford  ;  my  brother,  who  was  two 
years  older  than  I,  waiting  upon  me  that  we  might  go 


What  Answer?  j^^ 

together  through  Europe  ;  and  together  we  had  three  of 
the  happiest  years  of  life.     On  the  Continent  I  met 
/icr.     You  see  what  she  is  ;  you  know  Francesca  :  it 
is  useless  for  me  to  attempt  to  describe  her.     I  loved 
her,  —she  loved  me,  —it  was  confessed.     In  a  little 
while  I  called  her  wife ;  I  would,  if  I  could,  tell  you  of 
the  time  that  followed  :    I  cannot.     We  had  a  beauti- 
ful  home,    youth,    health,    riches,    friends,  happiness, 
two   noble   boys.      At  last   an   evil   fate  brought  us 
to  America.     I  was  to   look    after  some  business    af- 
fairs which,  my  agent  said,  needed  personal  supervi- 
sion.    My  brother,  whose  health  had  failed,  was  ad- 
vised to  try  a  sea-voyage,  and  change  of  scene  and  cli- 
mate.     My  wife  was  enthusiastic  about  the  glorious 
Republic, -the  great,  free  America,  -the  land  of  my 
birth.     We  came,  carr^-ing  with  us  letters  from  friends 
in  England,  that  were  an  open  sesame  to   the  most 
jealously  barred  doors.     They  flew   wide  at  our  ap- 
proach, but  to  be  shut  with  speed  when  my  face  was 
seen  ;  hands  were  cordially  extended,  and  drawn  back 
as  from  a  loathsome  contact  when  mine  went  to  meet 
them.    In  brief,  we  were  outlawed,  ostracised,  sacrificed 
on  the  altar  of  this    devilish  American  prejudice, - 
wholly  American,  for  it  is  found  nowhere  else  in  the 
world, -I  for  my  color,  she  for  connecting  her  fate 
with  mine. 

"  I  was  so  held  as  to  be  unable  to  return  at  once, 


174  What  All sw erf 

and  she  would  not  leave  me.  Then  my  brother 
drooped  more  and  more.  His  disease  needed  the 
brightest  and  most  cheerful  influences.  The  social 
and  moral  atmosphere  stifled  him.  He  died  ;  and  we, 
with  grief  intensified  by  bitterness,  laid  him  in  the  soil 
of  his  own  country  as  though  it  had  been  that  of  the 
stranger  and  enemy. 

"  At  this  time  the  anti-slavery  movement  was  pro- 
voking profound  thought  and  feeling  in  America.  I 
at  once  identified  myself  with  it ;  not  because  I  was 
connected  with  the  hated  and  despised  race,  but  be- 
cause I  loathed  all  forms  of  tyranny,  and  fought  against 
them  with  what  measure  of  strength  I  possessed. 
Doubtless  this  made  me  a  more  conspicuous  mark  for 
the  shafts  of  malice  and  cruelty,  and  as  I  could  no- 
where be  hurt  as  through  her,  malignity  exhausted  its 
devices  there.  She  was  hooted  at  when  she  appeared 
with  me  on  the  streets  ;  she  was  inundated  with  infa- 
mous letters;  she  was  dragged  before  a  court  oi  jus- 
tice upon  the  plea  that  she  had  defied  the  law  of  the 
state  against  amalgamation,  forbidding  the  marriage  of 
white  and  colored  ;  though  at  the  time  it  was  known 
that  she  was  English,  that  we  were  married  in  England 
and  by  English  law.  One  night,  in  the  midst  of  the 
riots  which  in  1S3S  disgraced  this  city,  our  house  was 
surrounded  by  a  mob,  burned  over  us  ;  and  I,  with  a 
few  faithful  friends,  barely  succeeded  in  carrying  her  to 


What  Ansiver?  175 

si  place  of  safety,  —  uncovered,  save  by  her  delicate 
night-robe  and  a  shawl,  hastily  caught  up  as  we  hur- 
ried her  away.  The  yelling  fiends,  the  burning  house, 
the  awful  horror  of  fright  and  danger,  the  shock  to  her 
health  and  strength,  the  storm,  —  for  the  night  was  a 
wild  and  tempestuous  one,  which  drenched  her  to  the 
skin,  —  from  all  these  she  might  have  recovered,  had 
not  her  boy,  her  first-born,  been  carried  into  her, 
bruised  and  dead,  —  dead,  through  an  accident  of 
burning  rafters  and  falling  stones ;  an  accident,  they 
said ;  yet  as  really  murdered  as  though  they  had  wil- 
fully and  brutally  stricken  him  down. 

"  After  that  I  saw  that  she,  too,  would  die,  were  she 
not  taken  back  to  our  old  home.  The  preparations 
were  hastily  made  ;  we  turned  our  faces  towards  Eng- 
land ;  we  hoped  to  reach  it  at  least  before  another  pair 
of  eyes  saw  the  light,  but  hoped  in  vain.  There  on 
the  broad  sea  Francesca  was  born.  There  her 
mother  died.     There  was  she  buried." 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  Ercildoune  had  con- 
trolled his  face  and  voice,  through  the  last  of  this 
distressing  recital,  and  with  the  final  word  he  bowed 
his  forehead  on  the  picture-frame,  —  convulsed  with 
agony,  —  while  voiceless  sobs,  like  spasms,  shook  his 
form.  Surrey  realized  that  no  words  were  to  be  said 
here,  and  stood  by,  awed  and  silent.  V/hat  hand, 
however  tender,  could  be  laid  on  such  a  wound  as 
this  ? 


176  W/mt  Answer? 

Presently  he  looked  up,  and  continued  :  "  I  came 
back  here,  because,  I  said,  here  was  my  place.  I  had 
wealth,  education,  a  thousand  advantages  which  are 
denied  the  masses  of  people  who  are,  like  me,  of 
mixed  race.  I  came  here  to  identify  my  fate  with 
theirs ;  to  work  with  and  for  them  ;  to  fight,  till  I  died, 
against  the  cruel  and  merciless  prejudice  which  grinds 
them  down.  I  have  a  son,  who  has  just  entered  the 
service  of  this  country,  perhaps  to  die  under  its  flag. 
I  have  a  daughter,"  —  Willie  flushed  and  started 
forward  ;  —  "I  asked  you  when  I  began  this  recital,  if 
you  had  counted  all  the  consequences.  You  know 
my  story ;  you  see  with  what  fate  you  link  yours  ; 
reflect !  Francesca  carries  no  mark  of  her  birth  ;  her 
father  or  brother  could  not  come  inside  her  home 
without  shocking  society  by  the  scandal,  were  not  the 
story  earlier  known.  The  man  whom  you  struck  down 
this  morning  is  one  of  our  neighbors  ;  you  saw  and 
heard  his  brutal  assault :  are  you  ready  to  face  more  of 
the  like  kind  ?  Better  than  you  I  know  what  sentence 
will  be  passed  upon  you,  —  what  measure  awarded. 
It  is  for  your  own  sake  I  say  these  things  ;  consider 
them.     I  have  finished." 

Surrey  had  made  to  speak  a  half  score  of  times, 
and  as  often  checked  himself,  —  partly  that  he  should 
not  interrupt  his  companion ;  partly  that  he  might  be 
master  of  his  emotions,  and  say  what  he  had  to  utter 
without  heat  or  excitement. 


What  Anszver?  177 

"  Mr.  Ercildoune,"  he  now  said,  "  listen  to  me.  I 
should  despise  myself  were  I  guilty  of  the  wicked  and 
vulgar  prejudice  universal  in  America.  I  should  be 
beneath  contempt  did  I  submit  or  consent  to  it.  Two 
years  ago  I  loved  Aliss  Ercildoune  without  knowing 
aught  of  her  birth.  She  is  the  same  now  as  then  ; 
should  I  love  her  the  less  ?  If  anything  hard  or  cruel 
is  in  her  fate  that  love  can  soften,  it  shall  be  done. 
If  any  painful  burdens  have  been  thrown  upon  her 
life,  I  can  carry,  if  not  the  whole,  then  a  part  of  them. 
If  I  cannot  put  her  into  a  safe  shelter  where  no  ill  will 
befall  her,  I  can  at  least  take  her  into  my  arms  and  go 
with  her  through  the  world.  It  will  be  easier  for  us,  I 
think,  —  I  hope,  —  to  face  any  fate  if  we  are  together. 
Ah,  sir,  do  not  prevent  it ;  do  not  deny  me  this  happi- 
ness. Be  my  ambassador,  since  she  will  not  let  me 
speak  for  myself,  and  plead  my  own  cause." 

In  his  earnestness  he  had  come  close  to  Mr. 
Ercildoune,  putting  out  his  one  hand  with  a  gesture 
of  entreaty,  with  a  tone  in  his  voice,  and  a  look  in  his 
face,  irresistible  to  hear  and  behold.  Ercildoune  took 
the  hand,  and  held  it  in  a  close,  firm  grasp.  Some 
strong  emotion  shook  him.  The  expression,  a  com- 
bination of  sadness  and  scorn,  which  commonly  held 
possession  of  his  eyes,  went  out  of  them,  leaving  them 
radiant.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  will  say  nothing  for  you. 
I  would  not  for  worlds  spoil  your  plea ;  prevent  her 
8*  L 


178  U7iat  Ansiuerl 

hearing,  from  your  own  mouth,  what  you  have  to  say. 
I  will  send  her  to  you,"  —  and,  going  to  a  door,  gave 
the  order  to  a  servant,  "  Desire  T^Iiss  Francesca  to 
come  to  the  parlor."  Then,  motioning  Surrey  to  the 
room,  he  went  away,  buried  in  thought. 

Standing  in  the  parlor,  for  he  was  too  restless  to  sit, 
he  tried  to  plan  how  he  should  meet  her  ;  to  think 
of  a  sentence  which  at  the  outset  should  disarm  her 
indignation  at  being  thus  thrust  upon  him,  and  convey 
in  some  measure  the  thought  of  which  his  heart  was 
full,  without  trespassing  on  her  reserve,  or  teUing  her 
of  the  letter  which  he  had  read.  Then  another  fear 
seized  him ;  it  was  two  years  since  he  had  written,  — 
two  years  since  that  painful  and  terrible  scene  had 
been  enacted  in  the  very  room  where  he  stood,  — two 
years  since  she  had  confessed  by  deed  and  look  that 
she  loved  him.  ]\Iight  she  not  have  changed  ?  might 
she  not  have  struggled  for  the  mastery  of  this  feeling 
with  only  too  certain  success?  might  she  not  have 
learned  to  regard  him  with  esteem,  perchance,  —  with 
friendship,  —  sentiment,  —  anything  but  that  which  he 
desired  or  would  claim  at  her  hands?  Silence  and 
absence  and  time  are  pitiless  destructives.  ^^light 
they  not  ?  aye,  might  they  not  ?  He  paced  to  and 
fro,  with  quick,  restless  tread,  at  the  thought.  All  his 
love  and  his  longing  cried  out  against  such  a  cruel 
supposition.     He  stopped  by  the  side  of  the  bookcase 


What  Ansivcrf  1/9 

against  which  she  had  fallen  in  that  merciless  and  suf- 
fering struggle,  and  put  his  hand  down  on  the  little 
projection,  which  he  knew  had  once  cut  and  wounded 
her,  with  a  strong,  passionate  clasp,  as  though  it  were 
herself  he  held.  Just  then  he  heard  a  step,  —  her 
step,  yet  how  unlike  !  —  coming  down  the  stairs. 
Where  he  stood  he  could  see  her  as  she  crossed  the 
hall,  coming  unconsciously  to  meet  him.  All  the 
brightness  and  airy  grace  seemed  to  have  been  drawn 
quite  out  of  her.  The  alert,  slender  figure  drooped  as 
if  it  carried  some  palpable  weight,  and  moved  with  a 
step  slow  and  unsteady  as  that  of  sickness  or  age. 
Her  face  was  pathetic  in  its  sad  pallor,  and  blue,  sor- 
rowful circles  were  drawn  under  the  deep  eyes,  heavy 
and  dim  with  the  shedding  of  unnumbered  tears.  It 
almost  broke  his  heart  to  look  at  her.  A  feeling,  piti- 
ful as  a  mother  would  have  for  her  suffering  baby,  took 
possession  of  his  soul,  —  a  longing  to  shield  and  pro- 
tect her.  Tears  blinded  him  ;  a  great  sob  swelled  in 
his  throat ;  he  made  a  step  forward  as  she  came  into 
the  room.  "Papa,"  she  said,  without  looking  up, 
"  you  wanted  me  ?  "  There  was  no  response.  "  Pa- 
pa !  "  In  an  instant  an  arm  enfolded  her  ;  a  pres- 
ence, tender  and  strong,  bent  above  her  j  a  voice, 
husky  with  crowding  emotions,  yet  sweet  with  all  the 
sweetness  of  love,  breathed,  "  My  darling  !  my  dar- 
Ung  ! "  as  his  fair,  sunny  hair  swept  her  face. 


l8o  What  Answer? 

Even  then  she  remembered  another  scene,  remem- 
bered her  promise  ;  even  then  she  thouglit  of  him, 
of  his  future,  and  struggled  to  release  herself  from 
his  embrace. 

What  did  he  say  ?  what  could  he  say  ?  Where  were 
the  arguments  he  had  planned,  the  entreaties  he  had 
purposed  ?  where  the  words  with  which  he  was  to  tell 
his  tale,  combat  her  refusal,  win  her  to  a  willing  and 
happy  assent  ?     All  gone. 

There  was  nothing  but  his  heart  and  its  caresses  to 
speak  for  him.  Silent,  with  the  ineffable  stillness 
he  kissed  her  eyes,  her  mouth,  held  her  to  his  breast 
with  a  passionate  fondness,  —  a  tender,  yet  masterful 
hold,  which  said,  "Nothing  shall  separate  us  now." 
She  felt  it,  recognized  it,  yielded  without  power  to 
longer  contend,  clasped  her  arms  about  his  neck,  met 
his  eyes,  and  dropped  her  face  upon  his  heart  with  a 
long,  tremulous  sigh  which  confessed  that  heaven  was 
won. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

"The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 
Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie." 

Burns. 

''  I  ^HE  evening  that  followed  was  of  the  brightest 
-A-  and  happiest;  even  the  adieus  spoken  to  the 
soldier  who  was  just  leaving  his  home  did  not  sadden 
it.  They  were  in  such  a  state  of  exaltation  as  to  see 
everything  with  courageous  and  hopeful  eyes,  and  sent 
Robert  off  with  the  feeling  that  all  these  horrible  real- 
ities they  had  known  so  long  were  but  bogies  to  fright- 
en foolish  children,  and  that  he  would  come  back  to 
them  wearing,  at  the  ver}^  least,  the  stars  of  a  major- 
general.  Whatever  sombre  and  painful  thoughts  filled 
Ercildoune's  heart  he  held  there,  that  no  gloom  might 
fall  from  him  upon  these  fresh  young  lives,  nor  sadden 
the  cheery  expectancy  of  his  son. 

Surrey,  having  carried  the  first  line  of  defence,  pre- 
pared for  a  vigorous  assault  upon  the  second.  Like  all 
eager  lovers,  his  primary  anxiety  was  to  hear  "  Yes  "  ; 
afterwards,  the  day.  To  that  end  he  was  pleading 
with  every  resource  that  love  and  impatience  could 
lend ;  but  Francesca  shook  her  head,  and  smiled,  and 
said   that  was  a  long  way  off,  —  that  was  not  to   be 


1 82  W/iai  Ansivcr? 

thought  of,  at  least  till  the  war  was  over,  and  her  sol- 
dier safe  at  home  ;  but  he  insisted  that  this  was  the 
flimsiest  and  poorest  of  excuses  ;  nay,  that  it  was 
the  veiy  reverse  of  the  true  and  sensible  idea,  which 
was  of  course  wholly  on  his  side.  He  had  these  few 
weeks  at  home,  and  then  must  away  once  more  to 
chances  of  battle  and  death.  He  did  not  say  this  till 
he  had  exhausted  every  other  entreaty ;  but  at  last, 
gathering  her  close  to  him  with  his  one  loving  arm,  — 
"  how  fortunate,"  he  had  before  said,  "  that  it  is  the 
left  arm,  because  if  it  were  the  other  I  could  not  hold 
you  so  near  my  heart !  "  —  so  holding  her,  he  glanced 
down  at  the  empty  sleeve,  and  whispered,  "  My 
darling  !  who  knows  ?  1  have  been  wounded  so  often, 
and  am  now  only  a  piece  of  a  fellow  to  come  to  you. 
It  may  be  something  more  next  time,  and  then  I  shall 
never  call  you  wife.  It  would  make  no  difference 
hereafter,  I  know :  we  belong  to  each  other  for  time 
and  eternity.  But  then  I  should  like  to  feel  that  we 
were  something  more  to  one  another  than  even  be- 
trothed lovers,  before  the  end  comes,  if  come  it  does, 
untimely.     Be  generous,  dearie,  and  say  yes." 

He  did  not  give  utterance  to  another  fear,  which 
was  that  by  some  device  she  might  again  be  taken 
away  from  him  ;  that  some  cruel  plan  miglit  be  put  in 
execution  to  separate  them  once  more.  He  would  not 
take  the  risk ;  he  would  bind  her  to  him  so  securely 


IV/ia^  Answer?  183 

that  no  device,  however  cunning,  —  no  plan,  however 
hard  and  shrewd,  —  could  again  divide  them. 

She  hesitated  long  ;  was  long  entreated  ;  but  the 
result  was  sure,  since  her  own  heart  seconded  every 
prayer  he  uttered.  At  last  she  consented  ;  but  insisted 
that  he  should  go  home  at  once,  see  the  mother  and 
father  who  were  waiting  for  him  with  such  anxious 
hearts,  give  to  them  —  as  was  their  due  —  at  least  a 
part  of  the  time,  and  then,  when  her  hasty  bride-prep- 
arations were  made,  come  back  and  take  her  wholly 
to  himself     Thus  it  was  arranged,  and  he  left  her. 

Into  the  mysteries  which  followed  —  the  mysteries 
of  hemming  and  stitching,  of  tucking  and  trimming, 
ruffling,  embroidering,  of  all  the  hurry  and  delicious 
confusion  of  an  elegant  yet  hasty  bridal  trousseau  — 
let  us  not  attempt  to  investigate. 

Doubtless  through  those  days,  through  this  sweet 
and  happy  whirl  of  emotion,  Francesca  had  many  anx- 
ious and  painful  hours  :  hours  in  which  she  looked  at 
the  future  —  for  him  more  than  for  herself  —  with  sor- 
rowful anticipations  and  forebodings.  But  with  each 
evening  came  a  letter,  written  in  the  morning  by  his 
dear  hand  ;  a  letter  so  full  of  happy,  hopeful  love, 
of  resolute,  manly  spirit,  that  her  cares  and  anxieties 
all  took  flight,  and  were  but  as  a  tale  that  is  told,  or  as 
a  dream  of  darkness  when  the  sun  shines  upon  a 
blessed  reality. 


184  JF/m^  Ajisivcr? 

He  ^vrote  her  that  he  had  told  his  parents  of  his 
wishes  and  plans ;  and  that,  as  he  had  known  before, 
they  were  opposed,  and  opposed  most  bitterly ;  but 
he  was  sure  that  time  would  soften,  and  knowledge  de- 
stroy this  prejudice  utterly.  He  wrote  as  he  believed. 
They  were  so  fond  of  him,  so  devoted  to  him  who  was 
their  only  child,  that  he  was  assured  they  would  not 
and  could  not  cast  him  off,  nor  hate  that  which  he 
loved.  He  did  not  know  that  his  father,  who  had 
never  before  been  guilty  of  a  base  action,  —  his 
mother,  who  was  fine  to  daintiness,  —  were  both  so 
warped  by  this  senseless  and  cruel  feeling  —  having 
seen  Francesca  and  known  all  her  beautiful  and  noble 
elements  of  personal  character  —  as  to  have  written 
her  a  letter  which  only  a  losel  should  have  penned  and 
an  outcast  read.  She  did  not  tell  him.  Being  satisfied 
that  they  two  belonged  to  one  another ;  that  if  they 
were  separated  it  would  be  as  the  tearing  asunder  of  a 
perfect  whole,  leaving  the  parts  rent  and  bleeding,  — 
she  would  not  listen  to  any  voice  that  attempted,  nor 
heed  any  hand  that  strove  to  drive  an  entering  wedge, 
or  to  divide  them.  Why,  then,  should  she  trouble  him 
by  the  knowledge  that  this  effort  had  again  been  made, 
and  by  those  he  trusted  and  honored.  Let  it  pass. 
The  future  must  decide  what  the  future  must  be, 
meanwhile,  they  were  to  live  in  a  happy  present. 

He  learned  of  it,  however,  before  he  left  his  home. 


JV/iat  Answer?  185 

Finding  that  neither  persuasions,  threats,  nor  prayers 
could  move  him,  —  that  he  would  be  true  to  honor  and 
love, — they  told  him  of  what  they  had  done;  laid 
bare  the  whole  intensity  of  their  feeling ;  and  putting 
her  on  the  one  side,  placing  themselves  on  the  other, 
said,  "Choose, — this  wife,  or  those  who  have  loved 
you  for  a  lifetime.  Cleave  to  her,  and  your  father 
disowns  you,  your  mother  renounces,  your  home  shuts 
its  doors  upon  you,  never  to  open.  With  the  w^orld 
and  its  judgment  we  have  nothing  to  do ;  that  is  be- 
tween it  and  you ;  but  no  judgment  of  indifferent 
strangers  shall  be  more  severe  than  ours." 

A  painful  position ;  a  cruel  alternative  ;  but  not  for 
an  instant  did  he  hesitate.  Taking  the  two  hands  of 
f:xther  and  mother  into  his  solitary  one,  he  said, — 
"  Father,  I  have  always  found  you  a  gentleman ; 
mother,  you  have  shown  all  the  graces  of  the  Christian 
character  which  you  profess  ;  yet  in  this  you  are  sup- 
porting the  most  dishonorable  sentiment,  the  most 
infidel  unbelief,  with  which  the  age  is  shamed.  You 
are  defying  the  dictates  of  justice  and  the  teachings  of 
God.  When  you  ask  me  to  rank  myself  on  your  side, 
I  cannot  do  it.  Were  my  heart  less  wholly  enlisted  in 
this  matter,  my  reason  and  sense  of  right  would  rebel. 
Here,  then,  for  the  present  at  least,  we  must  say  fare- 
well." And  so,  with  many  a  heart-ache  and  many  a 
pang,  he  went  away. 


1 86  What  Answer? 

As  true  love  always  grows  with  passing  time,  so  his 
increased  with  the  days,  and  intensified  by  the  cruel 
heat  which  was  poured  upon  it.  He  realized  the 
torture  to  which,  in  a  thousand  ways,  this  darling  of 
his  heart  had  for  a  lifetime  been  subjected  ;  and  his 
tenderness  and  love  —  in  which  was  an  element  of 
indignation  and  pathos  —  deepened  with  every  fresh 
revelation  of  the  passing  hours.  When  he  came  back 
to  her  he  had  few  words  to  speak,  and  no  airy  grace 
of  sentence  or  caress  to  bestow  ;  he  followed  her  about 
in  a  curious,  shadow-like  way,  with  such  a  strain  on 
his  heart  as  made  him  many  a  time  lift  his  hand  to  it, 
as  if  to  check  physical  pain.  For  her,  she  was  as  one 
who  had  found  a  beloved  master,  able  and  willing  to 
lighten  all  her  burdens  ;  a  physician,  whose  slightest 
touch  brought  balm  and  healing  to  every  aching 
wound.  And  so  these  two  when  the  time  came,  spite 
of  the  absence  of  friends  who  should  have  been  there, 
spite  of  warnings  and  denunciations  and  evil  prophe- 
cies, stood  up  and  said  to  those  who  listened  what 
their  hearts  had  long  before  confessed,  that  they  were 
one  for  time  and  eternity ;  then,  hand  in  hand,  went 
out  into  the  world. 

For  the  present  it  was  a  pleasant  enough  world  to 
them.  Surrey  had  a  lovely  little  place  on  the  Hudson 
to  which  he  would  carry  her,  and  pleased  himself  by 
fitting  it  up  with  every  convenience  and  beauty  that 
taste  could  devise  and  wealth  supply. 


What  Answer  f  187 

How  happy  they  were  there  !  To  be  sure,  nobody 
came  to  see  them,  but  then  they  wished  to  see  nobody ; 
so  every  one  was  well  satisfied.  The  delicious  lovers' 
life  of  two  years  before  \vas  renewed,  but  with  how 
much  richer  and  deeper  delights  and  blissfulness ! 
They  galloped  on  many  a  pleasant  morning  across 
miles  and  miles  of  country,  down  rocky  slopes,  and 
through  wild  and  romantic  glens.  They  drove  lazily, 
on  summer  noons,  through  leafy  fastnesses  and  cool 
forest  paths ;  or  sat  idly  by  some  little  stream  on  the 
fresh,  green  moss,  with  a  line  dancing  on  the  crystal 
water,  amusing  themselves  by  the  fiction  that  it  was 
fishing  upon  which  they  were  intent,  and  not  the  dear 
delight  of  watching  one  another's  faces  reflected  from 
the  placid  stream.  They  spent  hours  at  home,  read- 
ing bits  of  poems,  or  singing  scraps  of  love-songs,  talk- 
ing a  little,  and  then  falling  away  into  silence ;  or  she 
sat  perched  on  his  knee  or  the  elbow  of  his  chair, 
smoothing  his  sunny  hair,  stroking  his  long,  silky 
mustache,  or  looking  into  his  answering  eyes,  till  the 
world  lapsed  quite  away  from  them,  and  they  thought 
themselves  in  heaven. 

An  idle,  happy  time  !  a  time  to  make  a  worker  sigh 
only  to  behold,  and  a  Benthamite  lift  his  hands  in  dep- 
recation and  despair.  A  time  which  would  not  last, 
because  it  could  not,  any  more  than  apple-blossoms 
and  May  flowers,  but  which  was  sweet  and  fragrant 
past  all  describing  while  it  endured. 


1 88  IJViat  Ansiucr? 

Some  kindly  disposed  person  sent  Surrey  a  city  pa- 
per with  an  item  marked  in  such  wise  as  to  make  him 
understand  its  unpleasant  import  without  the  reading. 
"  Come,"  he  said,  "  we  will  have  none  of  this  ;  this  owl 
does  not  belong  to  our  sunshine,"  —  and  so  destroyed 
and  forgot  it.  Others,  however,  saw  that  which  he 
scorned  to  read.  He  had  not  been  into  the  city  since 
he  called  at  his  father  s  house,  and  walked  into  the  re- 
ception room  of  his  aunt,  and  been  refused  intenaew 
or  speech  at  either  place.  "  Very  well,"  he  thought, 
"  I  will  go  from  this  painful  inhospitality  and  coldness 
to  my  Paradise  ; "  and  he  went,  and  remained. 

The  only  letter  he  wrote  was  to  his  old  friend  and 
favorite  cousin,  Tom  Russell,  —  who  was  aw^ay  some- 
w^here  in  the  far  South,  and  from  whom  he  had  not 
heard  for  many  a  day,  —  and  hoped  that  he,  at  least, 
would  not  disappoint  him  ;  would  not  disappoint  the 
hearty  trust  he  had  in  his  breadth  of  nature  and  manly 
sensibility. 

And  so,  with  clouds  doubtless  in  the  sky,  but  which 
they  did  not  see,  —  the  sun  shone  so  bright  for  them  ; 
and  some  discords  in  the  minor  keys  w^hich  they  did 
not  heed,  —  the  major  music  was  so  sweet  and  intoxi- 
cating, —  the  brief,  glad  hours  wore  away,  and  the  tim.e 
for  parting,  with  hasty  steps,  had  almost  reached  and 
faced  them.  INIeanwhile,  what  was  occurring  to  oth- 
ers, in  other  scenes  and  among  other  surroundings  ? 


CHAPTER    XV. 

"  There  are  some  deeds  so  grand 
That  their  mighty  doers  stand 

Ennobled,  in  a  moment,  more  than  kings." 

BOKER, 

IT  was  towards  the  evening  of  a  blazing  July  day  on 
Morris  Island.  The  mail  had  just  come  in  and 
been  distributed.  Jim,  with  some  papers  and  a  pre- 
cious missive  from  Sallie  in  one  hand,  his  supper  in 
the  other,  betook  himself  to  a  cool  spot  by  the  river,  — 
if,  indeed,  any  spot  could  be  called  cool  in  that  fiery 
sand,  —  and  proceeded  to  devour  the  letter  with  won- 
derful avidity  while  the  "  grub,"  properly  enough,  stood 
unnoticed  and  uncared  for.  Presently  he  stopped, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  re-read  a  paragraph  in  the  epistle 
before  him,  then  re-rubbed,  and  read  it  again ;  and 
then,  laying  it  down,  gave  utterance  to  a  long  whistle, 
expressive  of  unbounded  astonishment,  if  not  incre- 
dulity. 

The  whistle  was  answered  by  its  counterpart,  and 
Jim,  looking  up,  beheld  his  captain,  —  Coolidge  by 
name,  —  a  fast,  bright  New  York  bo}',  standing  at  a 
little  distance,  and  staring  with  amazed  eyes  at  a  paper 
he  held  in  his  hands.  Glancing  from  this  to  Jim,  en- 
countering his  look,  he  burst  out  laughing  and  came 
towards  him. 


1 90  W/iat  Afiswcr? 

"  Helloa,  Given  ! "  he  called  :  Jim  was  a  favorite 
with  him,  as  indeed  with  pretty  much  every  one  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact,  officers  and  men,  —  "  you, 
too,  seem  put  out.  I  wonder  if  you  've  read  anything 
as  queer  as  that,"  handing  him  the  paper  and  striking 
his  finger  down  on  an  item;  "read  it."    Jim  read  :  — 

"  Miscegenation.  Disgraceful  Freak  in  High 
Life.  Fruit  of  an  Abolition  War.  —  We  are  cred- 
ibly informed  that  a  young  man  belonging  to  one  of  the 
first  families  in  the  city,  Mr.  W.  A.  S.,  — we  spare  his 
name  for  the  sake  of  his  relatives,  —  who  has  been  en- 
gaged since  its  outset  in  this  fratricidal  war,  has  just 
given  evidence  of  its  legitimate  effect  by  taking  to  his 
bosom  a  nigger  wench  as  his  luife.  Of  course  he  is 
disowned  by  his  family,  and  spurned  by  his  friends, 
even  radical  fanaticism  not  being  yet  ready  for  such 
a  dose  as  this.  However —  "  Jim  did  not  finish  the 
homily  of  which  this  was  the  presage,  but,  throwing 
the  paper  on  the  ground,  indignantly  drove  his  heel 
through  it,  tearing  and  soiling  it,  and  then  viciously 
kicked  it  into  the  river. 

Said  the  Captain  when  this  operation  was  completed, 
having  watched  it  with  curious  eyes,  "  Well,  my  man, 
are  you  aware  of  the  fact  that  that  is  iiiy  paper  ?  " 

"  Don't  care  if  it  is.  What  in  thunder  did  you  bring 
the  damned  Copperhead  sheet  to  me  for,  if  you  did  n't 
want  it  smashed?     Ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  hav- 


W//al  Answer?  191 

ing  such  a  thing  round  ?  How  'd  you  feel  if  you  were 
picked  up  dead  by  a  reb,  with  that  stuff  in  your  pock- 
et ?     Say  now  !  " 

Coolidge  laughed,  —  he  was  always  ready  to  laugh : 
that  was  probably  why  the  men  liked  him  so  well,  and 
stood  in  awe  of  him  not  a  bit.  "  Feel  ?  horridly,  of 
course.  Bad  enough,  being  dead,  to  yet  speak,  and 
tell  'em  that  paper  did  n't  represent  my  politics  :  'd 
that  do  ? " 

Jim  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"  What  are  you  making  such  a  devil  of  a  row  for,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?  it 's  too  hot  to  get  excited.  'Tain't 
likely  you  know  anything  about  Willie  Surrey." 

"  O  ho  !  it  is  Mr.  Will,  then,  is  it  ?  Know  him,  — 
don't  I,  though  ?  Like  a  book.  Known  him  ever  since 
he  was  knee-height  of  a  grasshopper.  I'd  like  to  have 
that  fellow "  —  shaking  his  fist  toward  the  floating 
paper  —  "  within  arm's  reach.  Would  n't  I  pummel 
him^  some  ?  O  no,  of  course  not,  —  not  at  all.  Only, 
if  he  wants  a  sound  skin,  I'd  advise  him,  as  a  friend,  to 
be  scarce  when  I'm  round,  because  it  'd  very  likely  be 
damaged." 

"  You  think  it  's  all  a  Copperhead  lie,  then  !  I 
should  have  thought  so,  at  first,  only  I  know  Surrey  's 
capable  of  doing  any  Quixotic  thing  if  he  once  gets 
his  mind  fixed  on  it." 

"  I  know  what  I  know,"  Jim  answered,  slowly  fold- 


192  What  Answer? 

ing  and  unfolding  Sallie's  letter,  which  he  still  held  in 
his  hand.  "  I  know  all  about  that  young  lady  he  's 
been  marrying.  She  's  young,  and  she  's  handsome  — 
handsome  as  a  picture  —  and  rich,  and  as  good  as  an 
angel ;  that  's  about  what  she  is,  if  Sallie  Howard  and 
I  know  B  from  a  bull's  foot." 

"Who  is  Sallie  Howard?  "  queried  the  Captain. 

"  She  ?  O,"  —  very  red  in  the  face,  —  "  she  's  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  she  's  Miss  Ercildoune's  seamstress." 

"  Ercildoune  ?  good  name  !  Is  she  the  lady  upon 
whom  Surrey  has  been  bestowing  his  —  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  is ;  and  here  's  her  photograph.  Sallie 
begged  it  of  her,  and  sent  it  to  me,  once  after  she  had 
done  a  kind  thing  by  both  of  us.  Looks  like  a  '  nigger 
wench,'  don't  she  ? " 

The  Captain  seized  the  picture,  and,  having  once 
fastened  his  eyes  upon  it,  seemed  incapable  of  remov- 
ing them.  "  This  ?  this  her  ? "  he  cried.  "  Great 
Caesar  !  I  should  think  Surrey  would  have  the  fellow 
out  at  twenty  paces  in  no  time.  Heavens,  what  a 
beauty ! " 

Jim  grinned  sardonically  :  "  She  is  rather  pretty, 
now,  —  ain't  she  }  " 

"  Pretty !  ugh,  what  an  expression  !  pretty,  indeed  ! 
I  never  saw  anything  so  beautiful.  But  what  a  sad 
face  it  is  ! " 

"  Sad !  well,  't  ain't  much  wonder.     I  guess  her  life  's 


U7ia^  Answe}'?  193 

been  sad  enough,  in  spite  of  her  youth,  and  her  beauty, 
and  her  riches,  and  all  the  rest." 

"  Why,  how  should  that  be  ?  " 

"  Suppose  you  take  another  squint  at  that  face," 

"  Well." 

"  See  anything  peculiar  about  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing  except  its  beauty." 

"  Not  about  the  eyes  ?  " 

"  No,  —  only  I  believe  it  is  they  that  make  the  face 
so  sorrowful." 

"  Very  like.  You  generally  see  just  such  big  mourn- 
ful-looking eyes  in  the  faces  of  people  that  are  called 
—  octoroons." 

"What?"  cried  the  Captain,  dropping  the  picture  in 
his  surprise. 

"  Just  so, "  Jim  answered,  picking  it  up  and  dust- 
ing it  carefully  before  restoring  it  to  its  place  in  his 
pocket-book. 

"  So,  then,  it  is  part  true,  after  all." 

"  True  ! "  exclaimed  Jim,  angrily,  —  "  don't  make 
an  ass  of  yourself,  Captain." 

"  Why,  Given,  did  n't  you  say  yourself  that  she  was 
an  octoroon,  or  some  such  thing  ? " 

"  Suppose  I  did,  —  what  then  ?  " 

"  I  should  say,  then,  that  Surrey  has  disgraced  him- 
self forever.  He  has  not  only  outraged  his  family 
and  his  friends,  and  scandalized  societ}^,  but  he  has 

9  M 


194  jr/?<7/  Ansivcr? 

run  against  nature  itself.  It  's  very  plain  God  Al- 
mighty never  intended  the  two  races  to  come  to- 
gether." 

"  O,  he  did  n't,  hey  ?  Had  a  special  despatch  from 
him,  that  you  know  all  about  it?  I  've  heard  just 
t,ach  talk  before  from  people  who  seemed  to  be  pretty 
well  posted  about  his  intentions,  —  in  this  particular 
matter,  —  though  I  generally  noticed  they  were  n't 
chaps  who  were  very  intimate  with  him  in  any  other 
way." 

The  Captain  laughed.  "Thank  you,  Jim,  for  the 
compliment ;  but  come,  you  are  n't  going  to  say  that 
nature  has  n't  placed  a  barrier  between  these  people 
and  us  ?  an  instinct  that  repels  an  Anglo-Saxon  from 
a  negro  always  and  everpvhere  ? " 

"Ho,  ho!  that's  good!  why,  Captain,  if  you  keep 
on,  you  '11  make  me  talk  myself  into  a  regular  aboli- 
tionist. Instinct,  hey?  I'd  like  to  know,  then,  where 
all  the  mulattoes,  and  the  quadroons,  and  the  octoroons 
come  from,  —  the  yellow-skins  and  brown-skins  and 
skins  so  nigh  white  you  can't  tell  'em  with  your  specta- 
cles on  !  The  darkies  must  have  bleached  out  amaz- 
ingly here  in  America,  for  you  'd  have  to  hunt  with  a 
long  pole  and  a  telescope  to  boot  to  find  a  straight-out 
black  one  anywhere  round,  —  leastwise  that 's  my  ob- 
servation." 

"  That  was  slavery." 


JiViat  Ansivcrf  195 

"  Yes 't  was,  —  and  then  the  damned  rascals  talk 
about  the  anialgamationists,  and  all  that,  up  North. 
'  T  wan't  the  abolitionists  ;  't  was  the  slaveholders  and 
their  friends  that  made  a  race  of  half-breeds  all  over 
the  country ;  but,  slaver}^  or  no  slavery,  they  showed 
nature  had  n't  put  any  barriers  between  them,  —  and  it 
-seems  to  me  an  enough  sight  decenter  and  more  re- 
spectable plan  to  marry  fair  and  square  than  to  sell  your 
own  children  and  the  mother  that  bore  them.  Come, 
now,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  if  you  come  to  that,  I  suppose  it  is." 

"  You  sup/>ose  it  is  !  See  here,  —  I  've  found  out 
something  since  I've  been  down  here,  and  have 
had  time  to  think;  't ain't  the  hving  together  that 
troubles  squeamish  stomachs ;  it 's  the  marrying. 
That 's  what 's  the  matter  !  " 

"  Just  about !  "  assented  the  Captain,  with  an  amused 
look,  "  and  here  's  a  case  in  point.  Surrey  ought  to 
have  been  shot  for  marrying  one  of  that  degraded 
race." 

"  Bah !  he  married  one  of  his  own  race,  if  I  know 
how  to  calculate." 

"  There,  Jim,  don't  be  a  fool !  If  she  's  got  any 
negro  blood  in  her  veins  she  's  a  nigger,  and  all  your 
talk  won't  make  her  anything  else." 

"  I  say.  Captain,  I  've  heard  that  some  of  your  an- 
cestors were  Indians  :  is  that  so  ?  " 


196  ]]7i(it  Ausu'cr? 

"  Yes  :  my  great-grandmother  was  an  Indian  chief's 
daughter,  —  so  they  say  ;  and  you  might  as  well  claim 
royalty  when  you  have  the  chance." 

"  Bless  me  !  your  great-grandmother,  eh  ?  Come, 
now,  what  do  you  call  yourself,  —  an  Injun  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't.     I  call  myself  an  Anglo-Saxon." 

"What,  not  call  yourself  an  Injun,  —  when  youx 
great-grandmother  was  one  ?     Here  's  a  pretty  go  !  " 

"  Nonsense  !  'tis  n't  likely  that  filtered  Indian  blood 
can  take  precedence  and  mastery  of  all  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  material  it 's  run  through  since  then." 

"  Hurray  !  now  you  've  said  it.  Lookee  here.  Cap- 
tain. You  say  the  Anglo-Saxon  's  the  master  race  of 
the  world." 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Of  course  you  do,  —  being  a  sensible  fellow.  So 
do  I  j  and  you  say  the  negro  blood  is  mighty  poor 
stuff,  and  the  race  a  long  way  behind  ours." 

"  Of  course,  again." 

"  Now,  Captain,  just  take  a  sober  squint  at  your  own 
logic.  You  back  Anglo-Saxon  against  the  field  ;  ver)* 
well !  here  's  ]Miss  Ercildoune,  we  '11  say,  one  eighth 
negro,  seven  eighths  Anglo-Saxon.  You  make  that 
one  eighth  stronger  than  all  the  other  seven  eighths  : 
you  make  that  little  bit  of  negro  master  of  all  the 
lot  of  Anglo-Saxon.  Now  I  have  such  a  good  opinion 
of  my  own  race  that  if  it  were  t'  other  way  about,  I-'d 


What  Ansiuer?  197 

think  the  one  eighth  Saxon  strong  enough  to  beat  the 
seven  eighths  nigger.  That 's  sound,  is  n't  it  ?  conse- 
quently, I  call  anybody  that 's  got  any  mixture  at  all, 
and  that  knov/s  anything,  and  keeps  a  clean  face,  — 
and  ain't  a  rebel,  nor  yet  a  Copperhead,  —  I  call  him, 
if  it 's  a  him,  and  her,  if  it 's  a  she,  one  of  us.  And  I 
mean  to  say  to  any  such  from  henceforth,  '  Here 's  your 
chance,  —  go  in,  and  win,  if  you  can,  —  and  anybody 
be  damn'd  that  stops  you  1 '  " 

"  Blow  away,  Jim,"  laughed  the  Captain,  "  I  like  to 
hear  you  ;  and  it 's  good  talk  if  you  don't  mean  it." 

"  I  '11  be  blamed  if  I  don't." 

"  Come,  you  're  talking  now,  —  you  're  saying  a  lot 
more  than  you  '11  live  up  to, —  you  knov/  that  as  well 
as  I.     People  always  do  when  they  're  gassing." 

"Well,  blow  or  no  blow,  it's  truth,  whether  I  live 
up  to  it  or  not."  And  he,  evidently  with  not  all  the 
steam  worked  off,  began  to  gather  sticks  and  build  a 
fire  to  fry  his  bit  of  pork  and  warm  the  cold  coffee. 

Just  then  they  heard  the  plash  of  oars  keeping  time 
to  the  cadence  of  a  plantation  hymn,  which  came-float- 
ing  solemn  and  clear  through  the  night :  — 

"  My  brudder  sittin'  on  de  tree  ob  life. 
An'  he  yearde  when  Jordan  roll. 
Roll  Jordan,  roll  Jordan,  roll  Jordan,  roll, 
Roll  Jordan,  roll  !  " 

They  both  paused  to  listen  as  the  refrain  was  again 
and  again  repeated. 


198  U7/al  Anszvcr? 

"  There  's  nigger  for  you,"  broke  out  Jim,  "  what  'n 
thunder  'd  they  mean  by  such  gibberish  as  that  ?  " 

The  Captain  laughed.  "  Come,  Given,  don't  quarrel 
with  what 's  above  your  comprehension.  Doubtless 
there  's  a  spiritual  meaning  hidden  away  somewhere, 
which  your  unsanctified  ears  can't  interpret." 

"  Spiritual  fiddlestick  !  " 

"Worse  and  worse  !  what  a  heathen  you  're  demon- 
strating yourself!  Alolins  are  no  part  of  the  heavenly 
chorus." 

"  Much  you  know  about  it !  Hark,  —  they  're  at  it 
again"  ;  and  again  the  voices  and  break  of  oars  came 
through  the  night :  — 

'^  O  march,  de  angel  march  !  O  march,  de  angel  march  ! 
O  my  soul  arise  in  heaven,  Lord,  for  to  yearde  when  Jordan 
roll! 

Roll  Jordan,  roll  Jordan,  roll  Jordan,  roll." 

"  Well,  I  confess  that 's  a  little  bit  above  my  com- 
prehension, —  that  is.  Spiritual  or  something  else. 
Lazy  vermin  !  they  '11  paddle  round  in  them  boats,  or 
lie  about  in  the  sun,  and  hoot  all  day  and  all  night 
about  '  de  good  Lord  '  and  '  de  day  ob  jubilee,'  —  and 
think  God  Almighty  is  going  to  interfere  in  their  spe- 
cial behalf,  and  do  big  things  for  them  generally." 

"  It 's  a  fact ;  they  do  all  seem  to  be  waiting  for 
something." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  they  need  n't  wait  any  longer.    The 


What  Anszuer?  199 

day  of  miracles  is  gone  by,  for  such  as  them,  anyway. 
They  ain't  worth  the  salt  that  feeds  them,  so  far  as  I 
can  discover." 

Through  the  wash  of  the  waters  they  could  hear 
from  the  voices,  as  they  sang,  that  their  possessors 
were  evidently  drawing  nearer. 

"  Sense  or  not,"  said  the  Captain,  "  I  never  listen  to 
them  without  a  queer  feeling.  Vvliat  they  sing  is  gen- 
erally ridiculous  enough,  but  their  voices  are  the  most 
pathetic  things  in  the  world." 

Here  the  hymn  stopped  ;  a  boat  was  pulled  up,  and 
presently  they  saw  two  men  coming  from  the  sands 
and  into  the  light  of  their  fire,  —  ragged,  dirty ;  one 
shabby  old  garment  —  a  pair  of  tow  pantaloons  —  on 
each  ;  bareheaded,  barefooted,  —  great,  clumsy  feet, 
stupid  and  heavy-looking  heads ;  slouching  walk, 
stooping  shoulders ;  something  eager  yet  deprecating 
in  their  black  faces. 

"  Look  at  'em.  Captain  ;  now  you  just  take  a  fair 
look  at  'em  ;  and  then  say  that  Mr.  Surrey's  wife  be- 
longs to  the  same  family,  —  own  kith  and  kin,  —  you 
ca-  a -n't  do  it." 

"  Faugh !  for  heaven's  sake,  shut  up  !  of  course, 
when  it  comes  to  this,  I  can't  say  anything  of  the  kind." 

"'Nuff  said.  You  see,  I  believe  in  Mr.  Sum^ey, 
and  what 's  more,  I  believe  in  Miss  Ercildoune,  —  have 
reason  to  ;  and  when  I  hear  anybody  mixing  her  up 


200  What  Answer? 

with  these  onry,  good-for-nothing  niggers,  it 's  more  'n 
I  can  stand,  so  don't  let 's  have  any  more  of  it " ; 
and  turning  with  an  air  which  said  that  subject  was 
ended,  Jim  took  up  his  forgotten  coffee,  pulled  apart 
some  brands  and  put  the  big  tin  cup  on  the  coals,  and 
then  bent  over  it  absorbed,  sniffing  the  savory  steam 
which  presently  came  up  from  it.  Meanwhile  the  two 
men  were  skulking  about  among  the  trees,  watching, 
yet  not  coming  near,  —  "  at  their  usual  work  of  wait- 
ing," as  the  Captain  said. 

"  Proper  enough,  too,  let  'em  wait.  Waiting  's  their 
business.  Now,"  taking  off  his  tin  and  looking  to- 
wards them,  "  what  d  'ye  s'pose  those  anemiles  want  ? 
Pity  the  boat  had  n't  tipped  over  before  they  got  here. 
Camp's  overrun  now  with  just  such  scoots.  Here, 
you  !  "  he  called. 

The  men  came  near.     ''  Where  'd  you  come  from  ?" 

One  of  them  pointed  back  to  the  boat,  seen  dimly 
on  the  sand. 

"  Was  that  you  howling  a  while  ago,  '  Roll  Jordan,' 
or  something  ? " 

"  Yes,  massa." 

"  And  where  did  you  come  from  ?  —  no,  you  need  n't 
look  back  there  again,  —  I  mean,  where  did  you  and 
the  boat  too  come  from  ? " 

"  Come  from  Mass'  George  Wingate's  place,  massa." 

"  Far  from  here  t  " 


IV/iat  Answer?  201 

"  Big  way,  massa." 

*'  "What  brought  you  here  ?  what  did  you  come  for?" 

"  If  you  please,  massa,  'cause  the  Linkum  sojers  was 
yere,  an'  de  big  guns,  an'  we  yearde  dat  all  our  peo- 
ple 's  free  v»iien  dey  gets  yere." 

"  Free !  Avhat  '11  such  fellows  as  you  do  with  free- 
dom, hey  ? " 

The  two  looked  at  their  interrogator,  then  at  one 
another,  opened  their  mouths  as  to  speak,  and  shut 
them  hopelessly,  —  unable  to  put  into  words  that  which 
was  struggling  in  their  darkened  brains,  —  and  then 
with  a  laugh,  a  laugh  that  sounded  wofully  like  a  sob, 
answered,  "  Dunno,  massa." 

"What  fools!"  cried  Jim,  angrily;  but  the  Cap- 
tain, who  was  watching  them  keenly,  thought  of  a  line 
he  had  once  read,  "  There  is  a  laughter  sadder  than 
tears."  "True  enough, —  poor  devils  1 "  he  added  to 
himself 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  "  Jim  proceeded. 

"  I  hope  massa  don't  think  we's  come  yere  for  to  git 
suthin'  to  eat,"  said  the  smaller  of  the  tw^o,  a  little,  thin, 
haggard-looking  fellow,  —  "  we 's  no  beggars.  Some  ob 
de  darkies  is,  but  we 's  not  dem  kind,  —  Jim  an'  me,  — 
we's  willin'  to  work,  ain't  we,  Jim  ?  " 

"  Jim  !  "  sohloquized  Given,  —  "  my  name,  hey  ? 
we  '11  take  a  squint  at  this  fellow." 

The  squint  showed  two  impoverished-looking  vrretch- 
9  * 


202  IV/ia^  Ajisiver? 

es,  with  a  starved  look  in  their  eyes,  which  he  did  not 
comprehend,  and  a  stan^ed  look  in  their  faces  and 
forms,  which  he  did. 

"  Come,  now,  are  you  hungry  ? "  he  queried  once 
more. 

"  If  ye  please,  massa,"  began  the  little  one  who  was 
spokesman,  —  '  little  folks  always  are  gas-bags,'  Jim 
was  fond  of  saying  from  his  six  feet  of  height,  —  "  if  ye 
please,  massa,  we 's  had  nothin'  to  eat  but  berries  an' 
roots  an'  sich  like  truck  for  long  while." 

"  Well,  why  the  devil  have  n't  you  had  something 
else  then  ?  what  've  you  been  doing  with  yourselves  for 
*  long  while '  ?  what  d'ye  mean,  coming  here  stan'ed 
to  death,  making  a  fellow  sick  to  look  at  you  ?  Hold 
your  gab,  and  eat  up  that  pork,"  pushing  over  his  tin 
plate,  "  'n'  that  bread,"  sending  it  after,  "  'n'  that  hard 
tack,  —  't  ai'n't  ver}*  good,  but  it 's  better  'n  roots,  I 
reckon,  or  berries  either,  —  'n'  gobble  up  that  coffee, 
double-quick,  mind  ;  and  don't  you  open  your  heads  to 
talk  till  that  grub  's  gone,  slick  and  clean.  Ugh  !  "  he 
said  to  the  Captain,  —  "  sight  o'  them  fellows  just  took 
my  appetite  away ;  could  n't  eat  to  save  my  soul ; 
lucky  taey  came  to  devour  the  rations ;  pity  to  throw 
thein  away."  The  Captain  smiled,  —  he  knew  Jim. 
"Poor  cusses  !"  he  added  presently,  "eat  like  canni- 
bals, dont  they  ?  hope  they  enjoy  it.  Had  enough  ?" 
seeing  they  had  devoured  ever}'thing  put  before  them. 


W/ia^  Answer  f  203 

"  Thankee,  massa.  Yes,  massa.  Beiy  kind,  massa. 
Had  quite  'miff." 

"  Well,  now,  you,  sir  !  "  looking  at  the  little  one,  — 
"  by  the  way,  what 's  your  name  ?  " 

'"Bijah,  if  ye  please,  massa." 

"'Bijah?  ^bijah,  hey?  well,  I  don't  please;  how- 
ever, it 's  none  of  my  name.  Well,  'Bijah,  how  came 
you  two  to  be  looking  like  a  couple  of  animated  skele- 
tons ?  that 's  the  next  question." 

"Yes,  massa." 

"  I  say,  how  came  you  to  be  stalled  ?  Hai'n't  they 
nothing  but  roots  and  berries  up  your  w^ay  ?  Mass' 
George  Wingate  must  have  a  jolly  time,  feasting,  in 
that  case.  Come,  what 's  your  story-  ?  Out  with  the 
whole  pack  of  lies  at  once." 

"  I  hope  massa  thinks  we  would  n't  tell  nuffin  but 
de  truf,"  said  Jim,  who  had  not  before  spoken  save  to 
say,  "  Thankee,"  —  "  cause  if  he  don't  bleeve  us,  ain't 
no  use  in  talkin'." 

"  You  shut  up  !  I  ain't  conversing  with  you,  raw- 
bones  !  Speak  w^hen  you  're  spoken  to  !  Come,  'Bi- 
jah, fire  away." 

"  Bery  good,  massa.  Ye  see  I  'se  Mass'  George 
Wingate's  boy.  Mass'  George  he  lives  in  de  back 
country,  good  long  way  from  de  coast,  —  over  a  hun- 
dred miles,  Jim  calklates,  —  an'  Jim  's  smart  at  cal- 
klating;  well,  Mass'  George  he's  not  berry  good  to 


204  U7iat  Anszucr? 

his  people  ;  never  was,  an'  he 's  been  ^vuss  'n  ever 
since  the  Linkum  sojers  cum  round  his  way,  'cause  it 's 
made  feed  source  ye  see,  an'  a  lot  of  de  boys  dey 
tuck  to  runnin'  away,  —  so  what  wid  one  ting  an'  an- 
oder,  his  temper  got  spiled,  an'  he  was  mighty  hard  on 
us  all  de  time. 

"  At  las'  I  got  tired  of  bein'  cuffed  an'  knocked 
round,  an'  den  I  yearde  dat  if  our  people,  any  of  dem, 
got  to  de  Fedral  lines  dey  was  free,  so  I  said,  '  Cum, 
'Bijah,  —  freedom  's  wuth  tryin'  for';  an'  one  dark 
night  I  did  up  some  hoe-cake  an'  a  piece  of  pork  an' 
started.  I  trabbeled  hard  's  I  could  all  night,  —  'bout 
fifteen  mile,  I  reckon, — an'  den  as  't  was  gittin'  toward 
mornin'  I  hid  away  in  a  swamp.  Ye  see  I  felt  drefful 
bad,  for  I  could  year  way  off,  but  plain  enuff,  de  bayin' 
of  de  hounds,  an'  I  knew  dat  de  men  an'  de  guns  an' 
de  dogs  was  all  after  me  ;  but  de  day  passed  an'  dey 
did  n't  come.  So  de  next  night  I  started  off  agen,  an' 
run  an'  walked  hard  all  night,  an'  towards  mornin'  I 
went  up  to  a  little  house  standen  off  from  de  road, 
thinking  it  was  a  nigger  house,  an'  jest  as  I  got  up  to 
it  out  walked  a  white  woman  scarin'  me  awfully,  an' 
de  fust  ting  she  axed  me  was  what  I  wanted." 

"  Tight  shave  !  "  interrupted  Jim,  —  "  what  d'  ye  do 
then  ? " 

"  Well,  massa,  ye  see  I  saw  mighty  quick  I  was  in 
for  a  lie  anyhow,  so  I  said,  '  Is  massa  at  home  ? '  'Yes,' 


What  Answer?  205 

says  she,  —  an'  sure  nuff,  he  cum  right  out.  '  Hello, 
nigger ! '  he  said  when  he  seed  me, '  whar  you  cum  from? 
so  I  tells  him  from  Pocotaligo,  an'  before  he  could  ax 
any  more  queshuns,  I  went  on  an'  tole  him  we  cotched 
fifty  Yankees  down  dere  yesterday,  an'  massa  he  was  so 
tickled  dat  he  let  me  go  to  Barnwells  to  see  my  family, 
an'  den  I  said  I  'd  got  off  de  track  an'  was  dead  beat 
an'  drefful  hungiy,  an'  would  he  please  to  sell  me 
suthin  to  eat.  At  dat  de  woman  streaked  right  into 
de  house,  an'  got  me  some  bread  an'  meat,  an'  tole  me 
to  eat  it  up  an'  not  talk  about  payin',  — '  we  don't 
charge  good,  faithful  niggers  nothin','  she  said,  —  so  I 
thanked  her  an'  eat  it  all  up,  an'  den,  when  de  man  had 
tole  me  how  to  go,  I  went  right  long  till  I  got  out  ob 
sight  ob  de  little  house,  an'  den  I  got  into  de  woods, 
an'  turned  right  round  de  oder  way  an'  made  tracks 
fast  as  I  could  in  dat  direcshun." 

"  Ho  !  ho !  you  're  about  what  I  call  a  'cute  nigger," 
laughed  Jim.     "  Come,  go  on,  —  this  gets  interesting." 

"  Well,  directly  I  yearde  de  dogs.  Dere  was  a  pond 
little  way  off;  so  I  tuck  to  it,  an' waded  out  till  I  could 
just  touch  my  toes  an'  keep  my  nose  above  water  so  's 
to  breathe.  Presently  dey  all  cum  down,  an'  I  yearde 
Mass'  George  say,  '  I  '11  hunt  dat  nigger  till  I  find  him 
if  takes  a  month.  I'se  goin'  to  make  a  zample  of 
him,'  —  so  I  shook  some  at  dat,  for  I  know  'd  what 
Mass'  George's  zamples  was.     Arter  while  one  ob  de 


2o6  What  Ansiver? 

men  says,  '  He  ain't  yere,  —  he  'd  shown  hisself  before 
dis,  if  he  was/  an'  I  spose  I  would,  for  I  was  pretty 
nearly  choked,  only  I  said  to  myself  when  I  went  in, 
'■  I  '11  go  to  de  bottom  before  I  '11  come  up  to  be 
tuck,'  so  I  jest  held  on  by  my  toes  an'  waited. 

"I  did  n't  dare  to  cum  out  when  dey  rode  away  to 
try  a  new  scent,  an'  when  I  did  I  jest  skulked  round 
de  edge  ob  de  pond,  ready  to  take  to  it  agen  if  I 
yearde  dem,  an'  when  night  cum  I  started  off  an'  run 
an'  walked  agen  hard  's  I  could,  an'  den  at  day-dawn 
I  tuck  to  anoder  pond,  an'  went  on  a  log  dat  was 
stickin'  in  de  water,  and  broke  down  some  rushes  an' 
bushes  enuf  to  lie  down  on  an'  cover  me  up,  an'  den 
I  slept  all  day,  for  I  was  drefful  tired  an'  most  starved 
too.  Next  evenin'  when  it  got  dark,  I  went  on  agen, 
an'  trabblin  through  de  woods  I  seed  a  little  light,  an' 
sartin  dis  time  dat  it  was  a  darkey's  cabin,  I  made  for 
it,  an'  it  was.  It  was  his'n,"  —  pointing  to  the  big  fellow 
who  stood  beside  him,  and  who  nodded  his  head  in 
assent, 

"  I  had  a  palaver  before  he  'd  let  me  in,  but  when  I 
was  in  I  seed  what  de  matter  was.  He  had  a  sojer 
dere,  a  Linkum  sojer,  bad  wounded,  what  he  'd  found 
in  de  woods,  —  he  was  a  runaway  hisself,  ye  see,  like 
me, — an'  he  'd  tuck  him  to  dis  ole  cabin  an  'd  been 
nussin  him  up  for  good  while.  When  I  seed  dat  I  felt 
drefful  bad,  for  I  knowed  dey  was  a  huntin  for  me  yet, 


What  Anszverf  207 

an'  I  tought  if  de  dogs  got  on  de  trail  dey  'd  get  to  dis 
cabin,  sure  :  an'  den  dey  'd  both  be  tuck.  So  I  up 
an'  tole  dem,  an'  de  sojer  he  says,  '  Come,  Jim,  you  've 
done  quite  enuff  fur  me,  my  boy.  If  you  're  in  dan- 
ger now,  be  off  with  you  fast  as  you  can,  —  an'  God 
reward  you,  for  I  never  can,  for  all  you  've  done  for 
me.' 

"  '  No,'  says  Jim,  '  Capen,  ye  need  n't  talk  in  dat 
way,  for  I'se  not  goin  to  budge  widout  you.  You  got 
wounded  fur  me  an'  my  people,  an'  now  I  '11  stick  by 
you  an'  face  any  thing  fur  you  if  it 's  Death  hisself ! ' 
That  's  just  what  Jim  said  ;  an'  de  sojer  he  put  his 
hand  up  to  his  face,  an'  I  seed  it  tremble  bad,  —  he  was 
weak,  you  see,  —  an'  some  big  tears  cum  out  troo  his 
fingers  onto  de  back  ob  it. 

"  Den  Jim  says,  '  Dis  is  n't  a  safe  place  for  any  on 
us,  an'  we  '11  have  to  take  to  our  heels  agen,  an'  so  de 
sooner  we  's  off  de  better.'  So  he  did  up  some  vittels, 
—  all  he  had  dere,  —  an'  gave  'em  to  me  to  tote,  —  an' 
den  before  de  Capen  could  sneeze  he  had  him  up  on 
his  back,  an'  we  was  off. 

"  It  was  pretty  hard  work  I  kin  tell  you,  strong  as 
Jim  was,  an'  we  'd  have  to  stop  an'  rest  putty  ofen  ;  an' 
den,  Jim  an'  I,  we  'd  tote  him  atween  us  on  some 
boughs  ;  an'  den  we  had  to  lie  by,  some  days,  all  day, 
. —  an'  we  trabbled  putty  slow,  cause  we  'd  lost  our 
bearins  an'  was  in  a  secesh  country,  we  knowed,  —  an' 


2o8  Uyiat  Answer? 

we  had  nuffin  but  berries  an'  sich  to  eat,  an'  got  nigh 
starved. 

"  One  night  we  cum  onto  half  a  dozen  fellows  skulk- 
in'  in  de  woods,  an'  at  fust  dey  made  fight,  but 
d'rectly  dey  know'd  we  was  friends,  fur  dey  was  some 
more  Linkum  sojers,  an'  dey  'd  lost  dere  way,  or 
ruther,  dey  knOw'd  where  dey  was,  but  dey  did  n't 
know  how  to  git  way  from  dere.  Dey  was  'scaped 
prisoners,  dey  told  us ;  when  I  yearde  where  't^vas  I 
know'd  de  way  to  de  coast,  an'  said  I'd  show  'em  de 
way  if  dey'd  cum  long  wid  us,  so  dey  did  ;  an'  we  got 
'long  all  right  till  we  got  to  de  ribber  up  by  Mass' 
Rhett's  place." 

"  Yes,  I  know  where  it  is,"  said  the  Captain. 

"  Den  what  to  do  was  de  puzzle.  De  country'  was 
all  full  ob  secesh  pickets,  an'  dere  was  de  ribber,  an' 
we  had  no  boat,  — so  Jim,  he  says,  '  I  know  what  to 
do ;  fust  I  '11  hide  you  yere,'  an'  he  did  all  safe  in  de 
woods  ;  '  an'  den  I  '11  git  ye  suthin  to  eat  from  de 
niggers  round,'  an'  he  did  dat  too,  do  he  could  n't  git 
much,  for  fear  he'd  be  seen;  an'  den  we,  he  and  I, 
made  some  ropes  out  ob  de  tall  grass  like  dat  we  'd 
ofen  made  fur  mats ,  an'  tied  dem  together  wid  some 
Oder  grass,  an'  stuck  a  board  in,  an'  den  made  fur  de 
Yankee  camp,  an'  yere  we  is." 

"Yes,"  said  the  black  man  Jim,  here,  —  breaking 
silence,  —  "  we  '11  show  you  de  way  back  if  you  kin  go 


What  Answer?  209 

up  in  a  boat  dey  can  rest  in,  fur  dey's  most  all  clean 
done  out,  an'  de  capen's  wound  is  awful  bad  yit" 

"  This  captain,  —  what  's  his  name  ?  "  inquired 
Coolidge. 

"His  name  is  here,"  said  Jim,  carefully  drawing 
forth  a  paper  from  his  rags,  —  "he  has  on  dis  some 
figgers  an'  a  map  of  de  country  he  took  before  he  got 
wounded,  an'  some  words  he  writ  wid  a  bit  of  burnt 
stick  just  before  we  cum  away,  —  an'  he  giv  it  to  me, 
an'  tole  me  to  bring  it  to  camp,  fur  fear  something 
might  happen  to  him  while  we  was  away." 

"  My  God ! "  cried  Coolidge  when  he  had  opened 
the  paper,  and  with  hasty  eyes  scanned  its  contents, 
"  it  's  Tom  Russell  ;  I  know  him  well.  This  must  be 
sent  up  to  head-quarters,  and  I  '11  get  an  order,  and  a 
boat,  and  some  men,  to  go  for  them  at  once."  All  of 
which  was  promptly  done. 

"  See  here  !  I  speak  to  be  one  of  the  fellow^s  what 
goes,"  Jim  emphatically  announced. 

"  All  right.  I  reckon  we  '11  both  go.  Given,  if  the 
General  will  let  us, — and  I  think  he  will," — which 
was  a  safe  guess,  and  a  true  one.  The  boat  was  soon 
ready  and  manned.  'Bijah,  too  weak  to  pull  an  oar, 
was  left  behind  ;  and  Jim,  really  not  fit  to  do  aught 
save  guide  them,  still  insisted  on  taking  his  share  of 
work.  They  found  the  place  at  last,  and  the  men ; 
and  taking  them  on  board,  —  Russell  having  to   be 


210  U7iat  Ajiszuer? 

moved  slowly  and  carefully,  —  they  began  to  pull  for 
home. 

The  tide  was  going  out,  and  the  river  low  :  that,  with 
the  heavily  laden  boat,  made  their  progress  lingering ; 
a  fact  which  distressed  them  all,  as  they  knew  the 
night  to  be  almost  spent,  and  that  the  shores  were 
so  lined  with  batteries,  open  and  masked,  and  the 
countn;  about  so  scoured  by  rebels,  as  to  make  it  al- 
most sm-e  death  to  them  if  they  were  not  beyond  the 
lines  before  the  morning  broke. 

The  water  was  steadily  and  perceptibly  ebbing, — 
the  rowing  growing  more  and  more  insecure, — the 
danger  becoming  imminent. 

"  Ease  her  off,  there  !  ease  her  off!  "  cried  the  Cap- 
tain, —  as  a  harsh,  gravelly  sound  smote  on  his  ear, 
and  at  the  same  moment  a  shot  whizzed  past  them, 
showing  that  they  were  discovered,  —  '''ease  her  off, 
there  !  or  we  're  stuck  !  " 

The  warning  came  too  late,  —  indeed,  could  not  have 
been  obeyed,  had  it  come  earlier.  The  boat  struck ; 
her  bottom  grating  hard  on  the  wet  sand. 

"  Great  God !  she  's  on  a  bar,"  cried  Coolidge, 
"and  the  ride  's  running  out,  fast." 

"  Yes,  and  them  damned  rebs  are  safe  enough  from 
^//rfire,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

A  few  scattering  shot  fell  about  them. 

"  They  're  going  to  make  their  mark  on  us,  anyway," 
put  in  another. 


What  Anszver?  21 1 

"  And  we  can't  send  'em  anything  in  return,  blast 
'em  I  "  growled  a  third. 

"That  's  the  worst  of  it,*'  broke  out  a  fourth,  "to 
be  shot  at  like  a  rat  in  a  hole." 

All  said  in  a  breath,  and  the  balls  by  this  time 
falling  thick  and  fast,  —  a  fier}^,  awful  rain  of  death. 
The  men  were  no  cowards,  and  the  captain  was  brave 
enough  ;  but  w^hat  could  they_do  ?  To  stand  up  was  but 
to  make  figure-heads  at  which  the  concealed  enemy 
could  fire  with  ghastly  certainty;  to  fire  in  return 
was  to  waste  their  ammunition  in  the  air.  The  men 
flung  themselves  face  foremost  on  the  deck,  silent  and 
watchful. 

Through  it  all  Jim  had  been  sitting  crouched  over 
his  oar.  He,  unarmed,  could  not  have  fought  had  the 
chance  oftered  ;  breaking  out,  once  and  again,  into 
the  solemn-sounding  chant  which  he  had  been  singing 
W'hen  he  came  up  in  his  boat  the  evening  before  :  — 

"  O  my  soul  arise  in  heaven,  Lord,  for  to  yearde  when  Jordan 
roll, 

Roll  Jordan,  roll  Jordan,  roll  Jordan,  roll,"  — 

the  words  falling  in  with  the  sound  of  the  water  as  it 
lapsed  from  them. 

"  Stop  that  infernal  noise,  will  you  ? "  cried  one  of 
the  men,  impatiently.     The  noise  stopped. 

"Hush,  Harry,— don't  swear!"  expostulated  an- 
other, beside  whom  was  lying  a  man  mortally  wound- 


212  llViat  A/iswcrf 

ed.  "  This  is  awful !  't  aiiVt  like  going  in  fair  and 
square,  on  your  chance." 

"  That 's  so,  —  it's  enough  to  make  a  fellow  pray," 
was  the  answer. 

Here  Russell,  putting  up  his  hand,  took  hold  of 
Jim's  brawny  black  one  with  a  gesture  gentle  as  a 
woman's.  It  hurt  him  to  hear  his  faithful  friend  even 
spoken  to  harshly.  All  this,  while  the  hideous  shower 
of  death  was  dropping  about  them  ;  the  water  was 
ebbing,  ebbing,  —  falling  and  running  out  fast  to  sea, 
leaving  them  higher  and  drier  on  the  sands  ;  the  gray 
dawn  was  steadily  brightening  into  day. 

At  this  fearful  pass  a  sublime  scene  was  enacted. 
"  Sirs  !  "  said  a  voice,  —  it  was  Jim's  voice,  and  in  it 
sounded  something  so  earnest  and  strange,  that  the 
men  involuntarily  turned  their  heads  to  look  at  him. 
Then  this  man  stood  up, — a  black  man,  —  a  little 
while  before  a  slave,  —  the  great  muscles  swollen  and 
gnarled  with  unpaid  toil,  the  marks  of  the  lash  and  the 
branding-iron  yet  plain  upon  his  person,  the  shadows 
of  a  life-time  of  wrongs  and  suiTerings  looking  out  of 
his  eyes.  "  Sirs  !  "  he  said,  simply,  "  somebody's  got 
to  die  to  get  us  out  of  dis,  and  it  may  as  well  be  me," 
—  plunged  overboard,  put  his  toil-hardened  shoulders 
to  the  boat ;  a  struggle,  a  gasp,  a  mighty  wrench,  — 
pushed  it  off  clear ;  then  fell,  face  foremost,  pierced  by 
a  dozen  bullets.     Free  at  last ! 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

"Ye  died  to  live." 

BOKER. 

^  I  ^HE  next  day  Jim  was  recounting  this  scene  to 
^  some  men  in  camp,  describing  it  with  feehng  and 
earnestness,  and  winding  up  the  narration  by  the  dec- 
laration, "  and  the  first  man  that  says  a  nigger  ain't  as 
good  as  a  white  man,  and  a  damn'd  sight  better  'n 
those  graybacks  over  yonder,  well  "  — 

"  Well,  suppose  he  does? "  —  interrupted  one  of  the 
men. 

"  O,  nothing,  Billy  Dodge,  —  only  he  and  I  '11  have 
a  few  words  to  pass  on  the  subject,  that's  all ;"  doub- 
ling up  his  fist,  and  examining  the  big  cords  and  mus- 
cles on  it  with  curious  and  well-satisfied  interest. 

"  See  here,  Billy ! "  put  in  one  of  his  comrades, 
"don't  you  go  to  having  any  argument  with  Jim, — 
he  's  a  dabster  with  his  tongue,  Jim  is." 

"  Yes,  and  a  devil  with  his  fist,"  growled  a  sullen- 
looking  fellow. 

"  Just  so,"  — assented  Jim,  —  "  when  a  blackguard 's 
round  to  feel  it." 

"  Well,  Given,  do  you  like  the  darkeys  well  enough 


214  lV//at  Afiszver? 

to  take  off  your  cap  to  them  ? "  queried  a  sergeant 
standing  near, 

"  What  are  you  driving  at  now,  hey  ?  " 

"  O,  not  much ;  but  you  '11  have  to  play  second 
fiddle  to  them  to-night.  The  General  thinks  they  're 
as  good  as  the  rest  of  us,  and  a  little  bit  better,  and 
has  sent  over  for  the  Fiftv-fourth  to  lead  the  char^re 
this  evening.     What  have  you  got  to  say  to  that  ? " 

"  Bully  for  them  !  that 's  what  I  've  got  to  say.  Any 
objections?  "  looking  round  him. 

"Xary  objec ! "  "They  deserve  it!"  "They 
fought  like  tigers  over  on  James  Island  I "  "I  hope 
they'll  pepper  the  rebs  well!" — "It  ought  to  be  a 
free  fight,  and  no  quarter,  with  them  !  "  "  Yes,  for  they 
get  none  if  they  're  taken  !  "  "  Go  in,  Fift}^-fourth  ! " 
These  and  the  like  exclamations  broke  from  the  men 
on  all  sides,  with  absolute  heartiness  and  good  will. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  sneered  a  dapper  little  officer 
who  had  been  looking  and  listening,  "  that  the  niggers 
have  plenty  of  advocates  here." 

Two  or  three  of  the  men  looked  at  Jim.  "  You  may 
bet  your  pile  on  that,  IMajor  !  "  said  he,  v/ith  becoming 
gravity- ;  "  we  love  our  friends,  and  we  hate  our  ene- 
mies, and  it 's  the  dark-complected  fellows  that  are  the 
first  down  this  way." 

"  Pretty-looking  set  of  friends  !  " 

"  Well,  they  ain't  much  to  look  at,  that 's  a  fact ; 


What  Ansiverf  215 

but  I  never  heard  of  anybody  saying  you  was  to  turn  a 
cold  shoulder  on  a  helper  because  he  was  homely, 
except,"  —  this  as  the  Major  was  walking  away,  "  ex- 
cept a  secesh,  or  a  fool,  or  one  of  little  Mac's  staff 
officers." 

"Homely?  what  are  you  gassing  about?"  objected 
a  little  fellow  from  Massachusetts  ;  "  the  Fift}--fourth  is 
as  fine-looking  a  set  of  men  as  shoulder  rifles  anp.vhere 
in  the  army." 

"  Jack 's  sensitive  about  the  credit  of  his  State," 
chaffed  a  big  Ohioan.  "  He  wants  to  crack  up  these 
fellows,  seeing  they're  his  comrades.  I  say,  Johnny, 
are  all  the  white  men  down  your  way  such  little  shav- 
ers as  you  ? " 

"  For  a  fellow  that 's  all  legs  and  no  brains,  you  talk 
too  much,"  ansv/ered  Johnny.  "  Have  any  of  you  seen 
the  Fifty-fourth  ? " 

"  I  have  n't."  "  Nor  I."  "  Yes,  I  saw  them  at 
Port  Royal."     "  x\nd  I."     "  And  I." 

"  Well,  the  Twenty-third  was  at  Beaufort  while  they 
were  there,  and  I  used  to  go  over  to  their  camp  and 
talk  with  them.  I  never  saw  fellows  so  in  earnest  \ 
they  seemed  ready  to  die  on  the  instant,  if  they  could 
help  their  people,  or  walk  into  the  slaveholders  any, 
first.  They  were  just  full  of  it ;  and  yet  it  seemed  ab- 
surd to  call  'em  a  black  regiment ;  they  w^ere  pretty 
much  all  colors,  and  some  of  'em  as  white  as  I  am." 


2i6  What  Answer? 

"  Lord,"  said  Jim,  "  that 's  not  saying  much,  you  've 
got  a  smutt}^  face." 

The  men  laughed.  Jack  with  the  rest,  as  he  dabbed 
at  his  heated,  powder-stained  countenance.  "  Come," 
said  he,  "  that 's  no  fair,  —  they  're  as  white  as  I  am, 
then,  when  I  've  just  scrubbed  ;  and  some  of  them  are 
first-raters,  too  ;  none  of  your  rag,  tag,  and  bobtail. 
There  's  one  I  remember,  a  man  from  Philadelphia, 
who  walks  round  like  a  prince.  He  's  a  gentleman, 
every  inch,  —  and  he  's  rich,  —  and  about  the  hand- 
somest-looking specimen  of  humanity  I  've  set  eyes 
upon  for  an  age." 

"  Rich,  is  he  ?  how  do  you  know  he  's  rich  ? " 

"  I  was  over  one  night  with  Captain  Ware,  and  he 
and  this  man  got  to  talking  about  the  pay  for  the  Fifty- 
fourth.  The  government  promised  them  regular  pay, 
you  see,  and  then  when  it  got  'em  refused  to  stick  to 
its  agreement,  and  they  would  take  no  less,  so  they 
have  n't  seen  a  dime  since  they  enlisted ;  and  it 's  a 
darned  mean  piece  of  business,  that 's  my  opinion  of 
the  matter,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it,"  looking 
round  belligerently. 

"  Come,  Bantam,  don't  crow  so  loud,"  interrupted 
the  big  Ohioan  ;  "  nobody 's  going  to  fight  you  on  that 
statement ;  it 's  a  shame,  and  no  mistake.  But  what 
about  your  paragon  ?  " 

*•'  I  '11  tell  you.    The  Captain  was  tr)^ing  to  convince 


JV/iat  Answer?  217 

him  that  they  had  better  take  what  they  could  get  till 
they  got  the  whole,  and  that,  after  all,  it  was  but  a  pal- 
tr>'  difference.  'But,'  said  the  man,  'it's  not  the 
money,  though  plenty  of  us  are  poor  enough  to  make 
that  an  item.  It 's  the  badge  of  disgrace,  the  stigma 
attached,  the  dishonor  to  the  government.  If  it  were 
only  two  cents  we  would  n't  submit  to  it,  for  the  differ- 
ence would  be  made  because  we  are  colored,  and 
we  're  not  going  to  help  degrade  our  own  people,  not 
if  we  starve  for  it.  Besides,  it's  our  flag,  and  otir 
government  now,  and  we  've  got  to  defend  the  honor 
of  both  against  any  assailants.  North  or  South,  — 
whether  they  're  Republican  Congressmen  or  rebel  sol- 
diers.' The  Captain  looked  puzzled  at  that,  and  asked 
what  he  meant.  '  Why,'  said  he,  '  the  United  States 
government  enlisted  us  as  soldiers.  Being  such,  we 
don't  intend  to  disgrace  the  service  by  accepting  the 
pay  of  servants.'" 

"That 's  the  kind  of  talk,"  bawled  Jim  from  a  fence- 
rail  upon  which  he  was  balancing.  "  I  'd  like  to  have 
a  shake  of  that  fellow's  paw.  What 's  his  name,  d  'ye 
know  ? " 

"  Ercildoune." 

"Hey?" 

"  Ercildoune." 

"  Jemime  !  Ercildoune,  —  from  Philadelphia,  you 
say.?" 

10 


2i8  Jl7ia^  Ansii'cr? 

"  Yes,  —  do  you  know  him  ?  " 

'•'  Well,  no,  —  I  don't  exactly  know  him,  but  I  think 
I  kno\v  something  about  him.  His  pa  's  rich  as  a  nob, 
if  it 's  the  one  I  mean,"  —  and  then  finished  soito  voce^ 
"  it 's  ^Irs.  Surrey's  brother,  sure  as  a  gun  !  " 

"Well,  he  ought  to  be  rich,  if  he  ain't.  As  we, 
that 's  the  Captain  and  me,  were  walking  away,  the  Cap- 
tain said  to  one  of  the  officers  of  the  Fifty-fourth  who  'd 
been  listening  to  the  talk,  '  It 's  easy  for  that  man  to 
preach  self-denial  for  a  principle.  He 's  rich,  I  've 
heard.  It  don't  hurt  him  any;  but  it 's  rather  selfish 
to  hold  some  of  the  rest  up  to  his  standard  ;  and  I 
presume  that  such  a  man  as  he  has  no  end  of  influence 
with  them  ! ' 

" '  As  he  should,'  said  his  officer.  '  Ercildoune  has 
brains  enough  to  stock  a  regiment,  and  refinement,  and 
genius,  and  cultivation  that  would  assure  him  the  high- 
est position  in  society  or  professional  life  anywhere 
oiit  of  America.  He  won't  leave  it  though;  for  in 
spite  of  its  wrongs  to  him  he  sees  its  greatness  and 
goodness,  —  says  that  it  is  his,  and  that  it  is  to  be 
saved,  it  and  all  its  benefits,  for  Americans,  —  no  mat- 
ter w^hat  the  color  of  their  skin,  —  of  whom  he  is  one. 
He  sees  plain  enough  that  this  war,  is  going  to  break 
the  slave's  chain,  and  ultimate'v  the  stronger  chain  of 
prejudice  that  binds  his  people  to  the  grindstone,  and 
he  's  full  of  enthusiasm  for  it,  accordingly  ;  though  I'm 


W/ial  Ansiuer?  219 

free  to  confess,  the  magnanimity  of  these  colored  men 
from  the  North  who  fight,  on  faith,  for  the  government, 
is  to  me  something  amazing.'  " 

"  *  Why,'  said  the  Captain,  —  '  why,  any  more  from 
the  North  than  from  the  South  ? '  " 

"  Why  ?  the  blacks  down  here  can  at  least  fight  their 
ex-masters,  and  pay  off  some  old  scores  ;  but  for  a  man 
from  the  North  who  is  free  already,  and  so  has  nothing 
to  gain  in  that  way,  —  whose  rights  as  a  man  and  a 
citizen  are  denied,  —  for  such  a  man  to  enlist  and  to 
fight,  without  bounty,  pay,  honor,  or  promotion,  — 
without  the  promise  of  gaining  anything  whatever  for 
himself,  —  condemned  to  a  thankless  task  on  the  one 
side,  —  to  a  merciless  death  or  even  worse  fate  on  the 
other,  —  facing  all  this  because  he  has  faith  that  the 
great  republic  will  ultimately  be  redeemed ;  that  some 
hands  will  gather  in  the  harvest  of  this  bloody  sowing, 
though  he  be  lying  dead  under  it,  —  I  tell  you,  the 
more  I  see  of  these  men,  the  more  I  know  of  them, 
the  more  am  I  filled  with  admiration  and  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Now  here  's  this  one  of  whom  we  are  talking,  Er- 
cildoune,  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth  :  in- 
stead of  eating  with  it,  in  peace  and  elegance,  in  some 
European  home,  look  at  him  here.  You  said  some- 
thing about  his  lack  of  self-sacrifice.  He  's  doing  what 
he  is  from  a  principle ;  and  beyond  that,  it  's  no  won- 


220  IV/iat  Anszvcr? 

der  the  men  care  for  him  :  he  has  spent  a  small  fortune 
on  the  most  needy  of  them  since  they  enlisted,  —  find- 
ing out  which  of  them  have  families,  or  any  one  de- 
pendent on  them,  and  helping  them  in  the  finest  and 
most  delicate  way  possible.  There  are  others  like 
him  here,  and  it 's  a  fortunate  circumstance,  for  there 's 
not  a  man  but  would  suffer,  himself,  —  and,  what 's 
more,  let  his  family  suffer  at  home,  —  before  he  'd  give 
up  the  idea  for  which  they  are  contending  now." 

"  '  Well,  good  luck  to  them  ! '  said  the  Captain  as  we 
came  away ;  and  so  say  I,"  finished  Jack. 

"  And  I,"  — "  And  I,"  responded  some  of  the 
men.  "  We  must  see  this  man  when  they  come  over 
here." 

•"  I  '11  bet  you  a  shilling,"  said  Jim,  pulling  out  a  bit 
of  currency,  "  that  he  '11  make  his  mark  to-night." 

"  Lend  us  the  change,  Given,  and  I  '11  take  you  up," 
said  one  of  the  men. 

The  others  laughed.  "He  don't  mean  it,"  said 
Jim  :  which,  indeed,  he  did  n't.  Nobody  seemed  in- 
clined to  run  any  risks  by  betting  on  the  other  side  of 
so  likely  a  proposition. 

This  talk  took  place  late  in  the  afternoon,  near  the 
head-quarters  of  the  commanding  General ;  and  the 
men  directly  scattered  to  prepare  for  the  work  of  the 
evening  :  some  to  clean  a  bayonet,  or  furbish  up  a 
rifle  ;  others  to  chat  and  laugh  over  the  chances  and 


IV/iat  Aiisivei'f  221 

to  lay  plans  for  the  morrow,  —  the  morrow  which  was 
for  them  never  to  dawn  on  earth  ;  and  yet  others  to 
sit  down  in  their  tents  and  write  letters  to  the  dear 
ones  at  home,  making  what  might,  they  knew,  be  a 
final  farewell,  —  for  the  fight  impending  was  to  be  a 
fierce  one,  —  or  to  read  a  chapter  in  a  little  book  carried 
from  some  quiet  fireside,  balancing  accounts  perchance, 
in  anticipation  of  the  call  of  the  Great  Captain  to  come 
up  higher. 

Through  the  whole  afternoon  there  had  been  a  tre- 
mendous cannonading  of  the  fort  from  the  gunboats 
and  the  land  forces  :  the  smooth,  regular  engineer 
lines  were  broken,  and  the  fresh-sodded  embankments 
torn  and  roughened  by  the  unceasing  rain  of  shot  and 
shell. 

About  six  o'clock  there  came  moving  up  the  island, 
over  the  burning  sands  and  under  the  burning  sky,  a 
stalwart,  splendid-appearing  set  of  men,  who  looked 
equal  to  any  daring,  and  capable  of  any  heroism; 
men  whom  nothing  could  daunt  and  few  things  subdue. 
Now,  weary,  travel-stained,  with  the  mire  and  the 
rain  of  a  two  days'  tramp  ;  weakened  by  the  incessant 
strain  and  lack  of  food,  having  taken  nothing  for  forty- 
eight  hours  save  some  crackers  and  cold  coffee  ;  with 
gaps  in  their  ranks  made  by  the  death  of  comrades  who 
had  fallen  in  battle  but  a  little  time  before,  —  under  all 
these  disadvantages,  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  of  what 


222  What  A?iswer? 

stuff  these  men  were  made,  and  for  what  work  they 
were  ready. 

As  this  regiment,  the  famous  Fifty-fourth,  came  up  the 
island  to  take  its  place  at  the  head  of  the  storming 
part^'  in  the  assault  on  Wagner,  it  was  cheered  from 
all  sides  by  the  white  soldiers,  who  recognized  and 
honored  the  heroism  which  it  had  already  shown,  and 
of  which  it  was  soon  to  give  such  new  and  sublime 
proof 

The  evening,  or  rather  the  afternoon,  was  a  lurid 
and  sultry  one.  Great  masses  of  clouds,  heavy  and 
black,  were  piled  in  the  western  sky,  fringed  here  and 
there  by  an  angry  red,  and  torn  by  vivid  streams  of 
lightning.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  shook  the  leaves  or 
stirred  the  high,  rank  grass  by  the  water-side  ;  a  por- 
tentous and  awful  stillness  filled  the  air,  —  the  stillness 
felt  by  nature  before  a  devastating  storm.  Quiet, 
with  the  like  awful  and  portentous  calm,  the  black 
regiment,  headed  by  its  young,  fair-haired,  knightly 
colonel,  marched  to  its  destined  place  and  action. 

When  within  about  six  hundred  yards  of  the  fort  it 
was  halted  at  the  head  of  the  regiments  already  sta- 
tioned, and  the  line  of  battle  formed.  The  prospect 
was  such  as  might  daunt  the  courage  of  old  and  well- 
tried  veterans,  but  these  soldiers  of  a  few  weeks 
seemed  but  impatient  to  take  the  odds,  and  to  make 
light  of  impossibilities.    A  slightly  rising  ground,  raked 


W/iat  Anszvcj'f  223 

by  a  murderous  fire,  to  within  a  little  distance  of  the 
battery  ;  a  ditch  holding  three  feet  of  water  ;  a  straight 
lift  of  parapet,  thirty  feet  high  ;  an  impregnable  po- 
sition, held  by  a  desperate  and  invincible  foe. 

Here  the  men  were  addressed  in  a  few  brief  and 
burning  words  by  their  heroic  commander.  Here 
they  were  besought  to  glorify  their  whole  race  by  the 
lustre  of  their  deeds  ;  here  their  faces  shone  with  a 
look  which  said,  "  Though  men,  we  are  ready  to  do 
deeds,  to  achieve  triumphs,  worthy  the  gods  !  "  here 
the  word  of  command  w^s  given  :  — 

"  We  are  ordered  and  expected  to  take  Battery 
Wagner  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet.    Are  you  ready  ? " 

*'  Ay,  ay,  sir  !  ready ! "  was  the  answer. 

And  the  order  went  pealing  down  the  line,  "  Ready ! 
Close  ranks  !  Charge  bayonets  !  Forward  !  Double- 
quick,  march !  "  —  and  away  they  went,  under  a  scat- 
tering fire,  in  one  compact  line  till  within  one  hundred 
feet  of  the  fort,  when  the  storm  of  death  broke  upon 
them.  Every  gun  belched  forth  its  great  shot  and 
shell ;  every  rifle  whizzed  out  its  sharp-singing,  death- 
freighted  messenger.  The  men  wavered  not  for  an 
instant ; — forward,  —  forward  they  went ;  plunged  into 
the  ditch  ;  waded  through  the  deep  water,  no  longer 
of  muddy  hue,  but  stained  crimson  with  their  blood  ; 
and  commenced  to  climb  the  parapet.  The  foremost 
line  fell,  and  then  the  next,  and  the  next.   The  ground 


224  W/ial  A?iswerf 

was  strewn  with  the  wrecks  of  humanity,  scattered 
prostrate,  silent,  where  they  fell,  —  or  rolling  under  the 
ver}-  feet  of  the  living  comrades  who  swept  onward  to 
fill  their  places.  On,  over  the  piled-up  mounds  of 
dead  and  dying,  of  wounded  and  slain,  to  the  mouth 
of  the  battery  ;  seizing  the  guns  ;  bayoneting  the  gun- 
ners at  their  posts  ;  planting  their  flag  and  struggling 
around  it ;  their  leader  on  the  walls,  sword  in  hand,  his 
blue  eyes  blazing,  his  fair  face  aflame,  his  clear  voice 
calling  out,  "  Forward,  my  brave  boys  !  "  —  then 
plunging  into  the  hell  of  battle  before  him.  Forward 
it  was.  They  followed  him,  gathered  about  him, 
gained  an  angle  of  the  fort,  and  fought  where  he  fell, 
around  his  prostrate  body,  over  his  peaceful  heart,  — 
shielding  its  dead  silence  by  their  living,  pulsating 
ones,  —  till  they,  too,  were  stricken  dov/n  ;  then  hacked, 
hewn,  battered,  mangled,  heroic,  yet  overcome,  the 
remnant  was  beaten  back. 

Ably  sustained  by  their  supporters,  Anglo-African 
and  Anglo-Saxon  vied  together  to  carry  ofl"  the  palm 
of  courage  and  glor}\  All  the  world  knows  the 
last  fought  with  heroism  sublime  :  all  the  world  forgets 
this  and  them  in  contemplating  the  deeds  and  the 
death  of  their  compatriots.  Said  Napoleon  at  Auster- 
litz  to  a  young  Russian  officer,  overw^helmed  with 
shame  at  yielding  his  sword,  "  Young  man,  be  con- 
soled :  those  who  are  conquered  by  my  soldiers  may 


W/ia^  Anszucr?  225 

still  have  titles  to  glor}^"  To  say  that  on  that  memo- 
rable night  the  last  were  surpassed  by  the  first  is  still 
to  leave  ample  margin  on  which  to  write  in  glowing 
characters  the  record  of  their  deeds. 

As  the  men  were  clambering  up  the  parapet  their 
color-sergeant  was  shot  dead,  the  colors  trailing 
stained  and  wet  in  the  dust  beside  him.  Ercildoune, 
who  was  just  behind,  sprang  forward,  seized  the  staff 
from  his  dying  hand,  and  mounted  with  it  upward.  A 
ball  struck  his  right  arm,  yet  ere  it  could  fall  shattered 
by  his  side,  his  left  hand  caught  the  flag  and  carried  it 
onward.  Even  in  the  mad  sweep  of  assault  and  death 
the  men  around  him  found  breath  and  time  to  hurrah, 
and  those  behind  him  pressed  more  gallantly  forward 
to  follow  such  a  lead.  He  kept  in  his  place,  the  colors 
flying,  —  though  faint  with  loss  of  blood  and  wrung  with 
agony,  —  up  the  slippery  steep  ;  up  to  the  walls  of  the 
fort ;  on  the  wall  itself,  planting  the  flag  where  the  men 
made  that  brief,  splendid  stand,  and  melted  away  like 
snow  before  furnace-heat.  Here  a  bayonet  thrust  met 
him  and  brought  him  down,  a  great  wound  in  his  brave 
breast,  but  he  did  not  yield  ;  dropping  to  his  knees, 
pressing  his  unbroken  arm  upon  the  gaping  wound,  — 
bracing  himself  against  a  dead  comrade,  —  the  colors 
still  flew ;  an  inspiration  to  the  men  about  him  :  a  defi- 
ance to  the  foe. 

At  last  when  the  shattered  ranks  fell  back,  sullenly 
10*  o 


226  What  Answer  f 

and  slowly  retreating,  it  was  seen  by  those  w^ho 
watched  him,  —  men  lying  for  three  hundred  rods 
around  in  every  form  of  wounded  suffering,  —  that  he 
was  painfully  working  his  way  downward,  still  holding 
aloft  the  flag,  bent  evidently  on  saving  it,  and  saving 
it  as  flag  had  rarely,  if  ever,  been  saved  before. 

Some  of  the  men  had  crawled,  some  had  been  car- 
ried, some  hastily  caught  up  and  helped  by  comrades 
to  a  sheltered  tent  out  of  range  of  the  fire ;  a  hospital 
tent,  they  called  it,  if  anything  could  bear  that  name 
which  was  but  a  place  where  men  could  lie  to  sufler 
and  expire,  without  a  bandage,  a  surgeon,  or  even  a 
drop  of  cooling  water  to  moisten  parched  and  dying 
lips.  Among  these  was  Jim.  He  had  a  small  field- 
glass  in  his  pocket,  and  forgot  or  ignored  his  pain  in 
his  eager  interest  of  watching  through  this  the  progress 
of  the  man  and  the  flag,  and  reporting  accounts  to  his 
no  less  eager  companions.  Black  soldiers  and  white 
were  alike  mad  wdth  excitement  over  the  deed ;  and 
fear  lest  the  colors  which  had  not  yet  dipped  should 
at  last  bite  the  ground. 

Now  and  then  he  paused  at  some  impediment :  it 
was  where  the  dead  and  dying  were  piled  so  thickly 
as  to  compel  him  to  make  a  detour.'  Now  and  then 
he  rested  a  moment  to  press  his  arm  tighter  against 
his  torn  and  open  breast.  The  rain  fell  in  such  tor- 
rents, the  evening  shadows  were  gathering  so  thickly, 


IV/iai  Answer  f  227 

that  they  could  scarcely  trace  his  course,  long  before 
it  was  ended. 

Slowly,  painfully,  he  dragged  himself  onward,  — 
step  by  step  down  the  hill,  inch  by  inch  across  the 
ground,  —  to  the  door  of  the  hospital  ;  and  then,  while 
dying  eyes  brightened,  —  dying  hands  and  even  shat- 
tered stumps  were  thrown  into  the  air,  —  in  brief, 
while  dying  men  held  back  their  souls  from  the  eter- 
nities to  cheer  him,  —  gasped  out,  "  I  did  —  but  do  — 
my  duty,  boys,  —  and  the  dear —  old  flag  —  never  once 
—  touched  the  ground,"  —  and  then,  away  from  the 
reach  and  sight  of  its  foes,  in  the  midst  of  its  defend- 
ers, who  loved  and  were  dying  for  it,  the  flag  at  last 
fell. 

Meanwhile,  other  troops  had  gone  up  to  the  encoun- 
ter ;  other  regiments  strove  to  win  what  these  men  had 
failed  to  gain ;  and  through  the  night,  and  the  storm, 
and  the  terrific  reception,  did  their  gallant  endeavor — • 
in  vain. 

The  next  day  a  flag  of  truce  went  up  to  beg  the 
body  of  the  heroic  young  chief  who  had  so  led  that 
mar\'ellous  assault.  It  came  back  without  him.  A 
ditch,  deep  and  wide,  had  been  dug ;  his  body,  and 
those  of  twenty-two  of  his  men  found  dead  upon  and 
about    him,    flung   into    it    in    one    common    heap; 


228  IV/iat  Ansiverf 

and  the  word  sent  back  was,  "  We  have  buried  him 
with  his  niggers." 

It  was  well  done.  The  fair,  sweet  face  and  gallant 
breast  lie  peacefully  enough  under  their  stately  monu- 
ment of  ebony. 

It  w^as  well  done.  What  more  fitting  close  of  such 
a  hfe,  —  what  fate  more  welcome  to  him  who  had 
fought  with  them,  had  loved,  and  believed  in  them, 
had  led  them  to  death,  —  than  to  lie  with  them  when 
they  died? 

It  was  well  done.  Slaver}^  buried  these  men,  black 
and  white,  together,  —  black  and  white  in  a  common 
grave.  Let  Liberty  see  to  it,  then,  that  black  and 
white  be  raised  toofether  in  a  life  better  than  the  old. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

"  Spirits  are  not  finely  touched 
But  to  fine  Issues." 

Shakespeare. 

SURREY  was  to  depart  for  his  command  on  Mon- 
day night,  and  as  there  were  various  matters  which 
demanded  his  attention  in  town  ere  leaving,  he  drove 
Francesca  to  the  city  on  the  preceding  Sunday,  —  a 
soft  clear  summer  evening,  full  of  pleasant  sights  and 
sounds.  They  scarcely  spoke  as,  hand  in  hand,  they 
sat  drinking  in  the  scene  whilst  the  old  gray,  for  they 
wished  no  high-stepping  prancers  for  this  ride,  jogged 
on  the  even  tenor  of  his  way.  Above  them,  the  blue 
of  the  sky  never  before  seemed  so  deep  and  tender ; 
while  in  it  floated  fleecy  clouds  of  delicate  amber, 
rose,  and  gold,  like  gossamer  robes  of  happy  spir- 
its invisible  to  human  eyes.  The  leaves  and  grass 
just  stirred  in  the  breeze,  making  a  slight,  musical 
murmur,  and  across  them  fell  long  shadows  cast  by 
the  westering  sun.  A  sentiment  so  sweet  and  pleas- 
urable as  to  be  tinged  with  pain,  took  possession  of 
these  young,  susceptible  souls,  as  the  influences  of 
the  time  closed  about  them.  In  cfur  happiest  mo- 
ments, our  moments  of  utmost  exaltation,  it  is  always 


230  What  Answer? 

thus  :  —  when  earth  most  nearly  approaches  the  beati- 
tudes of  heaven,  and  the  spirit  stretches  forward  with 
a  vain  longing  for  the  far  off,  which  seems  but  a  little 
way  beyond ;  the  unattained  and  dim,  which  for  a 
space  come  near. 

"  Darling  !  "  said  Surrey  softly,  "  does  it  not  seem 
easy  now  to  die?" 

"  Yes,  Willie,"  she  whispered,  "  I  feel  as  though  it 
would  be  stepping  over  a  very  little  stream  to  some 
new  and  beautiful. shore." 

Doubtless,  when  a  pure  and  great  soul  is  close  to 
eternit}^,  ministering  angels  draw  nigh  to  one  soon  to 
be  of  their  number,  and  cast  something  of  the  peace 
and  glory  of  their  presence  on  the  spirit  yet  held  by 
its  cerements  of  cla}'. 

At  last  the  ride  and  the  evening  had  an  end.  The 
country  and  its  dear  delights  were  mere  memories,  — 
fresh,  it  is  true,  but  memories  still,  and  no  longer  re- 
alities, —  in  the  luxurious  rooms  of  their  hotel. 

Evidently  Surrey  had  something  to  say,  which  he 
hesitated  and  feared  to  utter.  Again  and  again,  when 
Francesca  was  talking  of  his  plans  and  purposes, 
trusting  and  hoping  that  he  might  see  no  hard  ser- 
vice, nor  be  called  upon  for  any  exposing  duty,  "  not 
yet  awhile,"  she  prayed,  at  least,  —  again  and  again  he 
made  as  if  to  speak,  and  then,  ere  she  could  notice 
the  movement,  shook  his  head  with  a  gesture  of  si- 


What  Answer  f  231 

lence,  or  —  she  seeing  it,  and  asking  what  it  was  he 
had  to  say  —  found  ready  utterance  for  some  other 
thought,  and  whispered  to  himseh",  "  not  yet ;  not  quite 
yet.     Let  her  rest  in  peace  a  httle  space  longer." 

They  sat  talking  far  into  the  night,  this  last  night 
that  they  could  spend  together  in  so  long  a  time,  —  how 
long,  God,  with  whom  are  hid  the  secrets  of  the  future, 
could  alone  tell.  They  talked  of  what  had  passed,  which 
was  ended,  —  and  of  what  was  to  come,  which  was  not 
sure  but  full  of  hope,  —  but  of  both  with  a  feeling 
that  quickened  their  heart-throbs,  and  brought  happy 
tears  to  their  eyes. 

Twice  or  thrice  a  sound  from  some  far  distance,  un- 
decided, yet  full  of  a  solemn  melody,  came  through  the 
open  window,  borne  to  their  ears  on  the  still  air  of 
night,  —  something  so  undefined  as  not  consciously  to 
arrest  their  attention,  yet  still  penetrating  their  nerves 
and  affecting  some  fine,  inner  sense  of  feehng,  for  both 
shivered  as  though  a  chill  wind  had  blown  across  them, 
and  Surrey  —  half  ashamed  of  the  confession  —  said, 
"  I  don't  know  what  possesses  me,  but  I  hear  dead 
marches  as  plainly  as  though  I  were  follo\^dng  a  sol- 
dier's funeral." 

Francesca  at  that  grew  white,  crept  closer  to  his 
breast,  and  spread  out  her  arms  as  if  to  defend  him  by 
that  slight  shield  from  some  impending  danger ;  then 
both  laughed  at  these  foolish   and  superstitious  fan- 


232  IV/ial  Answer? 

cies,  and  went  on  with  their  cheerful  and  tender 
talk. 

Whatever  the  sound  was,  it  grew  plainer  and  came 
nearer  ;  and,  pausing  to  listen,  they  discovered  it  was 
a  mighty  swell  of  human  voices  and  the  marching  of 
many  feet. 

"  A  regiment  going  through,"  said  they,  and  ran  to 
the  window  to  see  if  it  passed  their  way,  looking  for  it 
up  the  long  street,  which  lay  solemn  and  still  in  the 
moonlight.  On  either  side  the  palace-like  houses  stood 
stately  and  dark,  like  giant  sentinels  guarding  the 
magnificent  avenue,  from  whence  was  banished  every 
sight  and  sound  of  the  busy  life  of  day  ;  not  a  noise, 
not  a  footfall,  not  a  solitar}^  soul  abroad,  not  a  wave 
nor  a  vestige  of  the*  great  restless  sea  of  humanity 
which  a  little  space  before  surged  through  it,  and 
which,  in  a  little  while  to  come,  would  rise  and  swell 
to  its  full,  and  then  ebb,  and  fall,  and  drop  away  once 
more  into  silence  and  nothingness. 

Through  this  white  stillness  there  came  marching  a 
regiment  of  men,  without  fife  or  drum,  moving  to  the 
music  of  a  refrain  which  lifted  and  fell  on  the  quiet 
air.  It  was  the  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,  —  and 
the  t\vo  listeners  presently  distinguished  the  words,  — 

"  In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
"With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me  ; 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on." 


IV/m^  Afiszver?  233 

The  effect  of  this  ;  the  thousand  voices  which  sang  ; 
the  marching  of  twice  one  thousand  feet ;  the  majesty 
of  the  words  ;  the  deserted  street ;  the  clear  moonlight 
streaming  over  the  men,  reflected  from  their  gleam- 
ing bayonets,  brightening  the  faded  blue  of  their  uni- 
forms, illumining  their  faces  which,  one  and  all,  seemed 
to  wear  —  and  probably  did  wear —  a  look  more  sol- 
emn and  earnest  than  that  of  common  life  and  feel- 
ing, —  the  combined  effect  of  it  all  was  something  in- 
describably impressive  :  —  inspiring,  yet  solemn. 

They  stood  watching  and  listening  till  the  pageant 
had  vanished,  and  then  turned  back  into  their  room, 
Francesca  taking  up  the  refrain  and  singing  the  line, 

"  As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on/' 

Surrey's  face  brightened  at  the  rapt  expression  of 
hers.  "  Sing  it  again,  dearie  !  "  he  said.  She  sang  it 
again.  "  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  he  asked  then.  "  Can 
you  sing  it,  and  mean  it  with  all  your  heart,  for  me?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  anxiety 
and  pain.     "  What  are  you  asking,  Willie  ? " 

He  sat  down ;  taking  her  upon  his  knee,  and  v/ith 
the  old  fond  gesture,  holding  her  head  to  his  heart, 
—  "I  should  have  told  you  before,  dearie,  but  I  did 
not  wish  to  throw  any  shadow  on  the  happy  days  we 
have  been  spending  together ;  they  were  few  and  brief 


234  What  Answer? 

enough  without  marring  them  ;  and  I  was  certain  of 
the  effect  it  would  have  upon  you,  by  your  incessant 
anxiet}^  for  Robert." 

She  drew  a  long,  gasping  sigh,  and  started  away 
from  his  hold  :  "  O  Willie,  you  are  not  going  to  —  " 

His  arm  drew  her  back  to  her  resting-place.  "  I  do 
not  return  to  my  command,  darling.  I  am  to  raise  a 
black  brigade." 

"  Freedmen  ? " 

"  Yes,  dearie." 

"  O  Willie,  —  and  that  act  just  passed  !  " 

"  It  is  true  ;  yet,  after  all,  it  is  but  one  risk  more." 

"  One  ?  O  Willie,  it  is  a  thousand.  You  had  that 
many  chances  of  escape  where  you  were ;  you  might 
be  wounded  and  captured  a  score  of  times,  and  come 
home  safe  at  last ;  but  this  !  " 

"  I  know." 

"  To  go  into  every  battle  with  the  sentence  of  death 
hanging  over  you ;  to  know  that  if  you  are  anywhere 
captured,  anyhow  made  prisoner,  you  are  condemned 
to  die,  —  O  Willie,  I  can't  bear  it ;  I  can't  bear  it !  I 
shall  die,  or  go  mad,  to  carry  such  a  thought  all  the 
time." 

For  answer  he  only  held  her  close,  with  his  face  rest- 
mg  upon  her  hair,  and  in  the  stillness  they  could  hear 
each  other's  heart  beat. 

"  It  is  God's  service,"  he  said,  at  last. 


W/tat  Answer  f  235 

"  I  know." 

"  It  will  end  slavery  and  the  war  more  effectually 
than  aught  else." 

"  I  know." 

"  It  will  make  these  freedmen,  wherever  they  fight, 
free  men.  It  will  give  them  and  their  people  a  sense 
of  dignity  and  power  that  might  other\vise  take  gener- 
ations to  secure." 

"  I  know." 

"  And  I.  Both  feeling  and  knowing  this,  v/ho  so  fit 
to  yield  and  to  do  for  such  a  cause  ?  If  those  who  see 
do  not  advance,  the  blind  will  never  v/alk." 

Silence  for  a  space  again  fell  between  them.  Fran- 
cesca  moved  in  his  arm. 

"  Dearie."  She  looked  up.  "  I  want  to  do  no  half 
service.  I  go  into  this  heart  and  soul,  but  I  do  not 
wish  to  go  alone.  It  will  be  so  much  to  me  to  know 
that  you  are  quite  willing,  and  bade  me  go.  Think 
what  it  is." 

She  did.  For  an  instant  all  sacrifices  appeared 
easy,  all  burdens  light.  She  could  send  him  out  to 
death  unfaltering.  One  of  those  sublime  moods  in 
which  mart}Tdom  seems  glorious  filled  and  possessed 
her.  She  took  away  her  clinging  arms  from  his  neck, 
and  said,  "  Go,  —  whether  it  be  for  life  or  for  death  ; 
whether  you  come  back  to  me  or  go  up  to  God  ;  I  am 
willing  —  glad  —  to  yield  you  to  such  a  cause." 


236  llViat  Ajiswcr? 

It  was  finished.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  Both  had  cUmbed  the  mount  of  sacrifice,  and 
sat  still  with  God. 

After  a  while  the  cool  gray  dawn  stole  into  their 
room.  The  night  had  passed  in  this  communion,  and 
another  day  come. 

There  were  many  "  last  things "  which  claimed 
Surrey's  attention  ;  and  he,  wishing  to  get  through 
them  earh^,  so  as  to  have  the  afternoon  and  evening 
undisturbed  with  Francesca,  plunged  into  a  stinging 
bath  to  refresh  him  for  the  day,  breakfasted,  and  was 
gone. 

He  attended  to  his  business,  came  across  many  an 
old  acquaintance  and  friend,  some  of  whom  greeted 
him  coldly  ;  a  few  cut  him  dead  ;  whilst  others  put 
out  their  hands  with  cordial  frankness,  and  one  or  t^vo 
congratulated  him  heartily  upon  his  new  condition  and 
happiness.  These  last  gave  him  fresh  courage  for  the 
task  which  he  had  set  himself  If  friends  regarded 
the  matter  thus,  surely  they — ,his  father  and  mother  — 
would  relent,  when  he  came  to  say  what  might  be  a 
final  adieu. 

He  ran  up  the  steps,  rang  the  bell,  and,  speaking  a 
pleasant  word  to  the  old  servant,  went  directly  to  his 
mother's  room.  His  father  had  not  yet  gone  down 
town  ;  thus  he  found  them  together.  They  started  at 
seeing  him,  and  liis  mother,  forgetting  for  the  instant 


U7iat  Answer?  237 

all  her  pride,  chagrin,. and  anger,  had  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  with  the  cry,  "  O  Willie,  WilUe,"  which 
came  from  the  dejDths  of  her  heart ;  then  seeing  her 
husband's  face,  and  recovering  herself,  sat  down  cold 
and  still. 

It  was  a  painful  inter^-iew.  He  could  not  leave 
without  seeins:  them  once  more  :  he  lono^ed  for  a  lov- 
ing  good  by  ;  but  after  that  first  outburst  he  almost 
wished  he  had  not  forced  the  meeting.  He  did  not 
speak  of  his  wife,  nor  did  they  ;  but  a  barrier  as  of 
adamant  was  raised  between  them,  and  he  felt  as 
though  congealing  in  the  breath  of  an  iceberg.  At 
length  he  rose  to  go. 

"  Father ! "  he  said  then,  "  perhaps  you  will  care  to 
know  that  I  do  not  return  to  my  old  command,  but 
have  been  commissioned  to  raise  a  brigade  from  the 
freedmen." 

Both  father  and  mother  knew  the  awful  peril  of  this 
service,  and  both  cried,  half  in  suffering,  half  in  an- 
ger, "  This  is  your  vrife's  work ! "  while  his  fathei 
added,  with  a  passionate  exclamation,  "  It  is  right, 
quite  right,  that  you  should  identify  yourself  with  her 
people.  Well,  go  your  way.  You  have  made  your 
bed  ;  lie  in  it." 

The  blood  flushed  into  Surrey's  face.  He  opened 
his  lips,  and  shut  them  again.  At  last  he  said  . 
"  Father,  will  you  never  forego  this  cruel  preju- 
dice ? " 


238  W/iat  Anszver? 

"  Never !  "  answered  his  mother,  quickly.  "  Never ! " 
repeated  his  father,  with  bitter  emphasis.  "  It  is  a 
feehng  that  will  never  die  out,  and  ought  never  to 
die  out,  so  long  as  any  of  the  race  remain  in  America. 
She  belongs  to  it,  that  is  enough." 

Surrey  urged  no  further ;  but  with  few  words,  con- 
strained on  their  part,  —  though  under  its  covering  of 
pride  the  mother's  heart  was  bleeding  for  him,  —  sad 
and  earnest  on  his,  the  farewell  was  spoken,  and 
they  watched  him  out  of  the  room.  How  and  when 
would  they  see  him  again  ? 

There  was  one  other  call  upon  his  time.  The  day 
was  wearing  into  the  afternoon,  but  he  would  not 
neglect  it.  This  was  to  see  his  old  protege,  Abram 
Franklin,  in  whom  he  had  never  lost  interest,  and 
for  whose  welfare  he  had  cared,  though  he  had  not 
seen  him  in  more  than  two  years.  He  knew  that 
Abram  was  ill,  had  been  so  for  a  long  time,  and  wished 
to  see  him  and  speak  to  him  a  few  friendly  and  cheer- 
ing words,  —  sure,  from  what  the  boy's  own  hand  had 
written,  that  this  would  be  his  last  opportunity  upon 
earth  to  so  do. 

Thus  he  went  on  from  his  father's  stately  palace  up 
Fifth  Avenue,  turned  into  the  quiet  side  street,  and 
knocked  at  the  little  green  door.  Mrs.  Franklin  came 
to  open  it,  her  handsome  face  thinner  and  sadder  than 
of  old.     She  caught   Surrey's  hand  between  both  of 


What  Answer?  239 

hers  with  a  delighted  cry:  "Is  it  you,  Mr.  Willie? 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  How  glad  Abram  will  be ! 
How  good  of  you  to  come  !  "  And,  holding  his  hand 
as  she  used  when  he  was  a  boy,  she  led  him  up 
stairs  to  the  sick-room.  This  room  was  even  cosier 
than  the  two  below  ;  its  curtains  and  paper  cheerfuller  ; 
its  furniture  of  quainter  and  more  hospitable  aspect ; 
its  windows  letting  in  more  light  and  air ;  everything 
clean  and  homely,  and  pleasant  for  weary,  suffering 
eyes  to  look  upon. 

Abram  was  propped  up  in  bed,  his  dark,  intelligent 
face  worn  to  a  shadow,  fiery  spots  breaking  through 
the  tawny  hue  upon  cheeks  and  lips,  his  eyes  bright 
with  fever.  Surrey  saw,  as  he  came  and  sat  beside  him, 
that  for  him  earthly  sorrow  and  toil  were  almost  ended. 
He  had  brought  some  fruit  and  flowers,  and  a  little 
book.  This  last  Abram,  having  thanked  him  eagerly 
for  all,  stretched  out  his  hand  to  examine. 

"  You  see,  Mr.  Vv^illie,  I  have  not  gotten  over  my  old 
love,"  he  said,  as  his  fingers  closed  upon  it.  "Whit- 
tier.?  '  In  War-Time  '  ?  that  is  fine.  I  can  read  about 
it,  if  I  can't  do  .anything  in  it,"  and  he  lay  for  a 
while  quietly  turning  over  the  pages.  Mrs.  Franklin 
had  gone  out  to  do  an  errand,  and  the  two  were  alone. 
"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Willie,"  said  Abram,  putting  his 
finger  upon  the  titles  of  two  successive  poems,  "  The 
Waiting,"  and  "The  Summons,"  "I  had  hard  work  to 


240  IV/ial  Ajiszver  ? 

submit  to  this  sickness  a  few  months  a^o  ?     I  fou£?ht 
against  it  strong  ;  do  you  know  why  ? " 

"  Not  your  special  reason.  What  was  it  ? " 
"  I  had  waited  so  long,  you  see,  —  I,  and  my  peo- 
ple, —  for  a  chance.  It  made  me  quite  wild  to  watch 
this  big  fight  go  on,  and  know  that  it  was  all  about  us, 
and  not  be  allowed  to  participate  ;  and  at  last  when 
the  chance  came,  and  the  summons,  and  the  way  was 
opened,  I  could  n't  answer,  nor  go.  It 's  not  the  dying 
I  care  for ;  I  'd  be  willing  to  die  the  first  battle  I  was 
in  ;  but  I  want  to'  do  sometliing  for  the  cause  before 
death  comes." 

The  book  was  lying  open  where  it  had  fallen  from 
his  hand,  and  Surrey,  glancing  down  at  the  very 
poem  of  which  he  spoke,  said  gently,  "  Here  is  your 
answer,  Franklin,  better  than  any  I  can  make  ;  it 
ought  to  comfort  you ;  listen,  it  is  God's  truth  ! 

'  O  power  to  do  !     O  baffled  will ! 
O  prayer  and  action !  ye  are  one ; 
Who  may  not  strive  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is  done  ! '  " 

"  It  is  so,"  said  Abram.  "  You  act  and  I  pray,  and 
you  act  for  me  and  mine.  I  'd  like  to  be  under  you 
when  you  get  the  troops  you  Vv'cre  telling  me  about ; 
but  —  God  knows  best." 

Surrey  sat  gazing  earnestly  into  space,  crowded  by 


IV/idt  Aiiszvcrf  241 

emotions  called  up  by  these  last  words,  whilst  Abram 
lay  watching  him  with  admiring  and  loving  eyes. 
"  For  me  and  mine,"  he  repeated  softly,  his  look  fas- 
tening on  the  blue  sleeve,  which  hung,  limp  and  empty, 
near  his  hand.  This  he  put  out  cautiously,  but  drew 
it  back  at  some  slight  movement  from  his  companion  j 
then,  seeing  that  he  was  still  absorbed,  advanced  it 
once  more,  and  slowly,  timidly,  gently,  lifted  it  to  his 
mouth,  pressing  his  lips  upon  it  as  upon  a  shrine. 
"  For  me  and  mine  !  "  he  whispered,  —  "  for  me  and 
mine !  "  tears  dimming  the  pathetic,  dying  eyes. 

The  peaceful  quiet  was  broken  by  a  tempest  of  aw- 
ful sound,  —  groans  and  shrieks  and  yells  mingled  in 
horrible  discord,  blended  with  the  trampling  of  many 
feet,  —  noises  which  seemed  to  their  startled  and  ex- 
cited fancies  like  those  of  hell  itself.  The  next 
moment  a  door  was  flung  open  ;  and  Mrs.  Franklin, 
bruised,  lame,  her  garments  torn,  blood  flowing  from  a 
cut  on  her  head,  staggered  into  the  room.  "  O  Lord  ! 
O  Lord  Jesus!"  she  cried,  "the  day  of  wrath  has 
come !  "  and  fell,  shuddering  and  crying,  on  the  floor. 


II 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

"  Will  the  future  come  ?     It  seems  that  we  may  almost  ask  this  question, 
when  we  see  such  terrible  shadow."  —  Victor  Hugo. 

HERE  it  will  be  necessary  to  consider  some  facts 
which,  while  they  are  rather  in  the  domain  of 
the  grave  recorder  of  historical  events,  than  in  that  of 
the  narrator  of  personal  experiences,  are  yet  essential 
to  the  comprehension  of  the  scenes  in  which  Surrey 
and  Franc esca  took  such  tragic  parts. 

Following  the  proclamation  for  a  draft  in  the  city  of 
New  York,  there  had  been  heard  on  all  sides  from  the 
newspaper  press  which  sympathized  with  and  aided 
the  rebellion,  premonitions  of  the  coming  storm ; 
denunciations  of  the  war,  the  government,  the  sol- 
diers, of  the  harmless  and  inoffensive  negroes  ;  angry 
incitings  of  the  poor  man  to  hatred  against  the  rich, 
since  the  rich  man  could  save  himself  from  the  neces- 
sity of  serving  in  the  ranks  by  the  payment  of  three 
hundred  dollars  of  commutation  money  ;  incendiary 
appeals  to  the  worst  passions  of  the  most  ignorant 
portion  of  the  community  ;  and  open  calls  to  insurrec- 
tion and  arms  to  resist  the  peaceable  enforcement  of  a 
law  enacted  in  furtherance  of  the  defence  of  the  na- 
tion's life. 


What  A7iswer?  243 

Doubtless  this  outbreak  had  been  intended  at  the 
time  of  the  darkest  and  most  disastrous  days  of  the 
Republic ;  when  the  often-defeated  and  sorely  dispirited 
Army  of  the  Potomac  was  marching  nordiward  to 
cover  Washington  and  Baltimore,  and  the  victorious 
legions  of  traitors  under  Lee  were  sv/elling  across  the 
border,  into  a  loyal  State  ;  when  Grant  stood  in  seem- 
ingly hopeless  waiting  before  Vicksburg,  and  Banks 
before  Port  Hudson  ;  and  the  whole  people  of  the 
North,  depressed  and  disheartened  by  the  continued 
series  of  defeats  to  our  arms,  were  beginning  to  look 
each  at  his  neighbor,  and  whisper  v/ith  white  lips, 
"  Perhaps,  after  all,  this  struggle  is  to  be  in  vain." 

Had  it  been  attempted  at  this  precise  time,  it  would, 
without  question,  have  been,  not  a  riot,  but  an  insur- 
rection, —  would  have  been  a  portion  of  the  army  of 
rebellion,  organized  and  effective  for  the  prosecution 
of  the  war,  and  not  a  mob,  hideous  and  devilish  in  its 
work  of  destruction,  yet  still  a  mob  ;  and  as  such  to 
be  beaten  down  and  dispersed  in  a  comparatively 
short  space  of  time. 

On  the  morning  of  Monday,  the  thirteenth  of  July, 
began  this  outbreak,  unparalleled  in  atrocities  by 
anything  in  American  history,  and  equalled  only  by 
the  horrors  of  the  worst  days  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion. Gangs  of  men  and  boys,  composed  of  railroad 
employees^    workers   in     machine-shops,    and    a    vast 


244  W/iat  Answer? 

crowd  of  those  who  lived  by  preying  upon  others, 
thieves,  pimps,  professional  ruffians,  —  the  scum  of 
the  city, — jail-birds,  or  those  who  were  running  with 
swift  feet  to  enter  the  prison-doors,  began  to  gather  on 
the  corners,  and  in  streets  and  alleys  where  they  lived  ; 
from  thence  issuing  forth  they  visited  the  great  estab- 
lishments on  the  line  of  their  advance,  commanding 
their  instant  close  and  the  companionship  of  the 
workmen,  —  many  of  them  peaceful  and  orderly  men, 
—  on  pain  of  the  destruction  of  one  and  a  murderous 
assault  upon  the  other,  did  not  their  orders  meet  with 
instant  compliance. 

A  body  of  these,  five  or  six  hundred  strong,  gather- 
ed about  one  of  the  enrolling-offices  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  city,  where  the  draft  w^as  quietly  proceeding, 
and  opened  the  assault  upon  it  by  a  shower  of  clubs, 
bricks,  and  paving-stones  torn  from  the  streets,  fol- 
lowing it  up  by  a  furious  rush  into  the  office.  Lists, 
records,  books,  the  drafting-wheel,  every  article  of  fur- 
niture or  work  in  the  room  w^as  rent  in  pieces,  and 
strewn  about  the  floor  or  flung  into  the  street ;  while 
the  law  officers,  the  newspaper  reporters,  —  who  are 
expected  to  be  everj^where,  —  and  the  few  peaceable 
spectators,  were  compelled  to  make  a  hasty  retreat 
through  an  opportune  rear  exit,  accelerated  by  the 
curses  and  blows  of  the  assailants, 

A  safe  in  the  room,  which  contained  some  of  the 


IV/iat  Afiszvcr?  245 

hated  records,  was  fallen  upon  by  the  men,  who  strove 
to  wrench  open  its  impregnable  lock  with  their  naked 
hands,  and,  baffled,  beat  them  on  its  iron  doors  and 
sides  till  they  were  stained  with  blood,  in  a  mad  frenzy 
of  senseless  hate  and  fury.     And  then,  finding  every 
portable  article  destroyed,  —  their  thirst  for  ruin  grow- 
ing by  the  little  drink  it  had  had,  —  and  believing,  or 
rather  hoping,  that  the  officers  had  taken  refuge  in  the 
upper  rooms,  set  fire  to  the  house,  and  stood  watching 
the  slow  and  steady  lift  of  the  flames,  filling  the  air  with 
demoniac  shrieks  and  yells,  while  they  waited  for  the 
prey  to  escape  from  some   door  or  window,  from  the 
merciless  fire  to  their  merciless  hands.     One  of  these, 
who  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  courageously 
stepped  for^vard,  and,  telling  them  that  they  had  utterly 
demolished  all  they  came  to  seek,  informed  them  that 
helpless  women  and  little  children  were  in  the  house, 
and  besought  them  to  extinguish  the  flames  and  leave 
the  ruined  premises  ;  to  disperse,  or  at  least  to  seek 
some  other  scene. 

By  his  dress  recognizing  in  him  a  government  offi- 
cial, so  far  from  hearing  or  heeding  his  humane  appeal, 
they  set  upon  him  with  sticks  and  clubs,  and  beat  him 
till  his  eyes  were  blind  with  blood,  and  he  —  bruised 
and  mangled  —  succeeded  in  escaping  to  the  handful 
of  police  who  stood  helpless  before  this  howling  crew, 
now  increased  to  thousands,     \\lth  difficulty  and  pain 


246  Jl7u7^  Ansivcrf 

the  inoffensive  tenants  escaped  from  the  rapidly  spread- 
ing fire,  which,  having  devoured  the  house  originally 
lighted,  swept  across  the  neighboring  buildings  till  the 
whole  block  stood  a  mass  of  burning  flames.  The 
firemen  came  up  tardily  and  reluctantly,  many  of  them 
of  the  same  class  as  the  miscreants  who  surrounded 
them,  and  who  cheered  at  their  approach,  but  either 
made  no  attempt  to  perform  their  dut}%  or  so  feeble 
and  farcical  a  one,  as  to  bring  disgrace  upon  a  service 
they  so  generally  honor  and  ennoble. 

At  last,  when  there  was  here  nothing  more  to  ac- 
complish, the  mob,  swollen  to  a  frightful  size,  includ- 
ing myriads  of  \vretched,  drunken  women,  and  the 
half-grown,  vagabond  boys  of  the  pavements,  rushed 
through  the  intervening  streets,  stopping  cars  and  in- 
sulting peaceable  citizens  on  their  way,  to  an  armory 
where  were  manufactured  and  stored  carbines  and 
gims  for  the  government.  In  anticipation  of  the  at- 
tack, this,  earlier  in  the  day,  had  been  fortified  by 
a  police  squad  capable  of  coping  with  an  ordinary 
crowd  of  ruffians,  but  as  chaff  before  fire  in  the  pres- 
ence of  these  murderous  thousands.  Jlere,  as  before, 
the  attack  was  begun  by  a  rain  of  missiles  gathered 
from  the  streets  ;  less  fatal,  doubtless,  than  more  civ- 
ilized arms,  but  frightful  in  the  ghastly  wounds  and 
injuries  they  inflicted.  Of  this  no  notice  was  taken 
by  those  who  w^ere  stationed  within  ;  it  was  repeated. 


What  Answer?  247 

At  last,  finding  they  were  treated  with  contemptuous 
silence,  and  that  no  sign  of  surrender  was  offered,  the 
crowd  swayed  back,  —  then  forward,  —  in  a  combined 
attempt  to  force  the  wide  entrance-doors.  Heavy 
hammers  and  sledges,  which  had  been  brought  from 
forges  and  workshops,  caught  *up  hastily  as  they  gath- 
ered the  mechanics  into  their  ranks,  were  used  with 
frightful  violence  to  beat  them  in,  —  at  last  successfully. 
The  foremost  assailants  began  to  climb  the  stairs,  but 
were  checked,  and  for  the  moment  driven  back  by 
the  fire  of  the  officers,  who  at  last  had  been  com- 
manded to  resort  to  their  revolvers.  A  half-score  fell 
wounded ;  and  one,  who  had  been  acting  in  some  sort 
as  their  leader, —  a  big,  brutal,  Irish  ruffian,  —  dropped 
dead. 

The  pause  was  but  for  an  instant.  As  the  smoke 
cleared  away  there  was  a  general  and  ferocious  on- 
slaught upon  the  armory  j  curses,  oaths,  revilings, 
hideous  and  obscene  blasphemy,  with  terrible  yells 
and  cries,  filled  the  air  in  every  accent  of  the  English 
tongue  save  that  spoken  by  a  native  American.  Such 
were  there  mingled  with  the  sea  of  sound,  but  they 
were  so  few  and  weak  as  to  be  unnoticeable  in  the 
roar  of  voices.  The  paving-stones  flew  like  hail,  until 
the  street  was  torn  into  gaps  and  ruts,  and  every  win- 
dow-pane, and  sash,  and  doorway,  was  smashed  or 
broken.     Meanwhile,  divers  attempts  were  made  to 


248  What  Anszver? 

fire  the  building,  but  failed  through  haste  or  ineffect- 
ual materials,  or  the  vigilant  watchfulness  of  the-  be- 
sieged. In  the  midst  of  this  gallant  defence,  word 
was  brought  to  the  defenders  from  head-quarters  that 
nothing  could  be  done  for  their  support ;  and  that,  if 
they  would  save  their  lives,  the}'  must  make  a  quick 
and  orderly  retreat.  Fortunately,  there  was  a  side 
passage  with  which  the  mob  was  unacquainted,  and, 
one  by  one,  they  succeeded  in  gaining  this,  and  van- 
ishing. A  few,  too  faithful  or  too  plucky  to  retreat 
before  such  a  foe.  persisted  in  remaining  at  their  posts 
till  the  fire,  which  had  at  last  been  communicated  to 
the  building,  crept  unpleasantly  near  ;  then,  by  drop- 
ping from  sill  to  sill  of  the  broken  windows,  or  sliding 
by  their  hands  and  feet  down  the  rough  pipes  and 
stones,  reached  the  pavement, — but  not  \vithout  inju- 
ries, and  blows,  and  broken  bones,  which  disabled  for 
a  lifetime,  if  indeed  they  did  not  die  in  the  hospitals  to 
which  a  few  of  the  more  mercifully  disposed  carried 
them. 

The  work  thus  begun,  continued,  —  gathering  in  force 
and  fury  as  the  day  wore  on.  Police-stations,  enroll- 
ing-offices,  rooms  or  buildings  used  in  any  way  by 
government  authorit}^,  or  obnoxious  as  representing 
the  dignit}^  of  law,  were  gutted,  destroyed,  then  left  to 
the  mercy  of  the  flames.  Newspaper  offices,  whose 
issues  had  been  a  fire    in  the   rear   of  the    nation's 


What  A  nswer  f  249 

armies  by  extenuating  and  defending  treason,  and 
through  violent  and  incendiary  appeals  stirring  up 
"  lewd  fellows  of  the  baser  sort "  to  this  very  carnival 
of  ruin  and  blood,  were  cheered  as  the  crowd  went 
by.  Those  that  had  been  faithful  to  loyalty  and  law 
were  hooted,  stoned,  and  even  stormed  by  the  army 
of  miscreants  who  were  only  driven  off  by  the  gallant 
and  determined  charge  of  the  police,  and  in  one  place 
by  the  equally  gallant,  and  certainly  unique  defence, 
which  came  from  turning  the  boiling  water  from  the 
engines  upon  the  howling  wretches,  who,  unprepared 
for  any  such  warm  reception  as  this,  beat  a  precipitate 
and  general  retreat.  Before  night  fell  it  was  no 
longer  one  vast  crowd  collected  in  a  single  section, 
but  great  numbers  of  gatherings,  scattered  over  the 
whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  city,  —  some  of  them 
engaged  in  actual  work  of  demolition  and  ruin ; 
others  with  clubs  and  weapons  in  their  hands,  prowl- 
ing round  apparently  with  no  definite  atrocity  to  per- 
peti-ate,  but  ready  for  any  iniquit}^  that  might  offer, 
—  and,  by  way  of  pastime,  chasing  every  stray  police 
officer,  or  solitary  soldier,  or  inoffensive  negro,  who 
crossed  the  line  of  their  vision  ;  these  three  objects  — 
the  badge  of  a  defender  of  the  law,  —  the  uniform  of 
the  Union  army,  —  the  skin  of  a  helpless  and  outraged 
race  —  acted  upon  these  madmen  as  water  acts  upon 
a  rabid  dog. 

II* 


250  W/iat  Ajiswerf 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  crowd  which  could  have 
numbered  not  less  than  ten  thousand,  the  majority  of 
whom  were  ragged,  frowzy,  drunken  women,  gathered 
about  the  Orphan  Asylum  for  Colored  Children,  —  a 
large  and  beautiful  building,  and  one  of  the  most 
admirable  and  noble  charities  of  the  cit}\  When  it 
became  evident,  from  the  menacing  cries  and  groans 
of  the  multitude,  that  danger,  if  not  destruction,  was 
meditated  to  the  harmless  and  inoffensive  inmates,  a 
flag  of  truce  appeared,  and  an  appeal  was  made  in 
their  behalf,  by  the  principal,  to  every  sentiment  of 
humanity  which  these  beings  might  possess,  —  a  vain 
appeal !  Whatever  human  feeling  had  ever,  if  ever, 
filled  these  souls  was  utterly  drowned  and  washed 
away  in  the  tide  of  rapine  and  blood  in  which  they 
had  been  steeping  themselves.  The  few  officers  who 
stood  guard  over  the  doors,  and  manfully  faced  these 
demoniac  legions,  were  beaten  down  and  flung  to  one 
side,  helpless  and  stunned,  whilst  the  vast  crowd 
rushed  in.  All  the  articles  upon  which  they  could 
seize  —  beds,  bedding,  carpets,  furniture,  —  the  very 
garments  of  the  fleeing  inmates,  some  of  these  torn 
from  their  persons  as  they  sped  by — were  carried  into 
the  sti-eets,  and  hurried  off  by  the  women  and  children 
who  stood  ready  to  receive  the  goods  which  their  hus- 
bands, sons,  and  fathers  flung  to  their  care.  The 
little  ones,  many  of  them,  assailed  and  beaten  ;  all,  — 


IV/ia^  Ajisiver?  251 

orphans  and  care-takers,  —  exposed  to  every  indignity 
and  every  danger,  driven  on  to  the  street,  —  the  build- 
ing was  fired.  Tliis  had  been  attempted  whilst  the 
helpless  children  —  some  of  them  scarce  more  than 
babies  —  were  still  in  their  rooms ;  but  this  devilish 
consummation  was  prevented  by  the  heroism  of  one 
man.  He,  the  Chief  of  the  Fire  Department,  strove  by 
voice  and  arm  to  stay  the  endeavor ;  and  when,  over- 
come by  superior  numbers,  the  brands  had  been  lit 
and  piled,  with  naked  hands,  and  in  the  face  of 
threatened  death,  he  tore  asunder  the  glowing  embers, 
and  trod  them  under  foot.  Again  the  effort  was 
made,  and  again  failed  through  the  determined  and 
heroic  opposition  of  this  solitary  soul.  Then,  on  the 
front  steps,  in  the  midst  of  these  drunken  and  infuri- 
ate thousands,  he  stood  up  and  besought  them,  if  they 
cared  nothing  for  themselves  nor  for  these  hapless 
orphans,  that  they  would  not  bring  lasting  disgrace 
upon  the  city  by  destroying  one  of  its  noblest  chari- 
ties, which  had  for  its  object  nothing  but  good. 

He  was  answered  on  all  sides  by  yells  and  execra- 
tions, and  frenzied  shrieks  of  "  Down  with  the  nagurs  ! " 
coupled  with  every  oath  and  every  curse  that  malig- 
nant hate  of  the  blacks  could  devise,  and  drunken, 
Irish  tongues  could  speak.  It  had  been  decreed  that 
this  building  was  to  be  razed  to  the  ground.  The 
house  was  fired  in  a  thousand  places,  and  in  less  than 


252  U'/iat  Answer? 

nvo  hours  the  walls  crashed  in,  —  a  mass  of  snioking, 
blackened  ruins  ;  whilst  the  children  wandered  through 
the  streets,  a  prey  to  beings  who  were  wild  beasts 
in  ever)'thing  save  the  superior  ingenuity  of  man  to 
asronize  and  torture  his  victims. 

Frightful  as  the  day  had  been,  the  night  was  yet 
more  hideous  ;  since  to  the  horrors  which  were  seen 
was  added  the  greater  horror  of  deeds  which  might  be 
committed  in  the  darkness  ;  or,  if  they  were  seen,  it 
was  by  the  lurid  glare  of  burning  buildings,  —  the  red 
flames  of  which — flung  upon  the  stained  and  brutal 
faces,  the  torn  and  tattered  garments,  of  men  and 
women  who  danced  and  howled  around  the  scene  of 
ruin  they  had  caused  —  made  the  whole  aspect  of 
affairs  seem  more  like  a  gathering  of  fiends  rejoicing 
in  Pandemonium  than  aught  with  which  creatures  of 
flesh  and  blood  had  to  do. 

Standing  on  some  elevated  point,  looking  over  the 
great  cit}^,  which  presented,  as  usual,  at  night,  a  solemn 
and  impressive  show,  the  spectator  was  thrilled  with  a 
fearful  admiration  by  the  sights  and  sounds  which  gave 
to  it  a  mysterious  and  awful  interest.  A  thousand 
fires  streamed  up  against  the  sky,  making  darkness 
visible ;  and  from  all  sides  came  a  combination  of 
noises  such  as  might  be  heard  from  an  asylum  in 
which  were  gathered  the  madmen  of  the  world. 

The  next  morning's  sun  rose  on  a  city  which  was 


What  Ajiszuer?  253 

ruled  by  a  reign  of  terror.  Had  the  police  possessed 
the  heads  of  Hydra  and  the  arms  of  Briareus,  and 
had  these  heads  all  seen,  these  arms  all  fought, 
they  would  have  been  powerless  against  the  multi- 
tude of  opposers.  Outbreaks  were  made,  crowds 
gathered,  houses  burned,  streets  barricaded,  fights 
enacted,  in  a  score  of  places  at  once.  Where  the 
officers  appeared  they  were  irretrievably  beaten  and 
overcome ;  their  stand,  were  it  ever  so  short,  but  in- 
flaming the  passions  of  the  mob  to  fresh  deeds  of  vio- 
lence. Stores  were  closed  ;  the  business  portion  of  the 
city  deserted ;  the  large  works  and  factories  emptied 
of  men,  who  had  been  sent  home  by  their  employers, 
or  were  swept  into  the  ranks  of  the  marauding  bands. 
The  city  cars,  omnibuses,  hacks,  were  unable  to  run, 
and  remained  under  shelter.  Every  telegraph  wire  was 
cut,  the  posts  torn  up,  the  operators  driven  from  their 
offices.  The  mayor,  seeing  that  civil  power  was  help- 
less to  stem  this  tide,  desired  to  call  the  military  to  his 
aid,  and  place  the  city  under  martial  law,  but  was  op- 
posed by  the  Governor,  —  a  governor,  who,  but  a  few 
days  before,  had  pronounced  the  war  a  failure;  and 
not  only  predicted,  but  encouraged  this  mob  rule, 
w^hich  was  now  crushing  ever}^thing  beneath  its  heavy 
and  ensanguined  feet.  This  man,  through  almost  two 
days  of  these  awful  scenes,  remained  at  a  quiet  sea- 
side retreat  but  a  few  miles  from  the  city.     Coming  to 


254  What  Answer? 

it  on  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  —  instead  of 
ordering  cannon  planted  in  the  streets,  giving  these 
creatures  opportunity  to  retire  to  their  homes,  and,  in 
the  event  of  refusal,  blowing  them  there  by  powder  and 
ball,  —  he  first  went  to  the  point  where  was  collected 
the  chiefest  mob,  and  proceeded  to  address  them. 
Before  him  stood  incendiaries,  thieves,  and  murderers, 
who  even  then  were  sacking  dwelling-houses,  and 
butchering  powerless  and  inoffensive  beings.  These 
wretches  he  apostrophized  as  "  My  friends,"  repeating 
the  title  again  and  again  in  the  course  of  his  harangue, 
assuring  them  that  he  was  there  as  a  proof  of  his 
friendship,  —  which  he  had  demonstrated  by  "  sending 
his  adjutant-general  to  Washington,  to  have  the  draft 
stopped  ";  begging  them  to  "  wait  for  his  return  ";  "  to 
separate  now  as  good  citizens  ";  with  the  promise  that 
they  "  might  assemble  again  whenever  they  wished  to 
so  do";  meanwhile,  he  would  "take  care  of  their 
rights."  This  model  speech  was  incessantly  inter- 
rupted by  tremendous  cheering  and  frantic  demon- 
strations of  delight,  —  one  great  fellow  almost  crushing 
the  Governor  in  his  enthusiastic  embrace.  This  ended, 
he  entered  a  carriage,  and  was  driven  through  the 
blackened,  smoking  scenes  of  Monday's  devastations  ; 
through  fresh  \istas  of  outrage,  of  the  day's  execution  ; 
bland,  gracious,  smiling.  Wherever  he  appeared,  cheer 
upon  cheer  rent  the  air  from  these  crowds  of  drunken 


What  A7isiuer?  255 

blasphemers  ;  and  in  one  place  the  carriage  in  which 
he  sat  was  actually  lifted  from  the  ground,  and  carried 
some  rods,  by  hands  yet  red  with  deeds  of  arson  and 
murder ;  while  from  all  sides  voices  cried  out,  "  Will  ye 
stop  the  draft,  Gov'nur  ? "  "  Bully  boy ! "  "  Ye  're  the 
man  for  us!"  "  Hooray  for  Gov'nur  Saymoor ! "  Thus 
through  the  midst  of  this  admiring  and  applauding 
crowd,  this  high  officer  of  the  law,  sworn  to  maintain 
public  peace,  moved  to  his  hotel,  where  he  was  met 
by  a  despatch  from  Washington,  informing  him  that 
five  regiments  were  under  arms  and  on  their  way  to 
put  an  end  to  this  bloody  assistance  to  the  Southern 
war. 

His  allies  in  newspaper  offices  attempted  to  throw 
the  blame  upon  the  loyal  press  and  portion  of  the 
community.  This  was  but  a  repetition  of  the  cry,  raised 
by  traitors  in  arms,  that  the  government,  struggling  for 
life  in  their  deadly  hold,  was  responsible  for  the  war  : 
"  If  thou  wouldst  but  consent  to  be  murdered  peacea- 
bly, there  could  be  no  strife." 

These  editors  outraged  common  sense,  truth,  and 
decency,  by  speaking  of  the  riots  as  an  "  uprising  of 
the  people  to  defend  their  liberties,"  —  "  an  opposition 
on  the  part  of  the  workingmen  to  an  unjust  and  op- 
pressive law,  enacted  in  favor  of  the  men  of  wealth  and 
standing."  As  though  the  people  of  the  great  metropo- 
lis were  incendiaries,  robbers,  and  assassins  ;  as  though 


256  IV/mt  Answei'? 

the  poor  were  to  demonstrate  their  indignation  against 
the  rich  by  hunting  and  stoning  defenceless  women 
and  children  ;  torturing  and  murdering  men  whose 
only  offence  was  the  color  God  gave  them,  or  men 
wearing  the  self-same  uniform  as  that  which  they  de- 
clared was  to  be  thrust  upon  them  at  the  behest  of  the 
rich  and  the  great. 

It  was  absurd  and  futile  to  characterize  this  new 
Reign  of  Terror  as  anything  but  an  effort  on  the  part 
of  Northern  rebels  to  help  Southern  ones,  at  the  most 
critical  moment  of  the  war,  —  with  the  State  militia 
and  available  troops  absent  in  a  neighboring  Common- 
wealth,—  and  the  loyal  people  unprepared.  These 
editors  and  their  coadjutors,  men  of  brains  and  ability, 
were  of  that  most  poisonous  growth,  —  traitors  to  the 
Government  and  the  flag  of  their  country,  —  renegade 
Americans.  Let  it,  however,  be  written  plainly  and 
graven  deeply,  that  the  tribes  of  savages  —  the  hordes 
of  ruffians  —  found  ready  to  do  their  loathsome  bid- 
ding, were  not  of  native  growth,  nor  American  born. 

While  it  is  true  that  there  were  some  glib-tongued 
fellows  who  spoke  the  language  without  foreign  accent, 
all  of  them  of  the  lowest  order  of  Democratic  ward- 
poHticians,  or  creatures  skulking  from  the  outstretched 
arm  of  avenging  law  ;  while  the  most  degraded  of  the 
German  population  were  represented ;  while  it  is  also 
true  that  there  were  Irish,  and  Catholic  Irish  too,  — 


IV/iat  Anszi'cr?  257 

industrious,  sober,  intelligent  people,  —  who  indignant- 
ly refused  participation  in  these  outrages,  and  mourned 
over  the  barbarities  which  were  disgracing  their 
national  name  ;  it  is  pre-eminently  true,  —  proven  by 
thousands  of  witnesses,  and  testified  to  by  numberless 
tongues, — that  the  masses,  the  rank  and  file,  the 
almost  entire  body  of  rioters,  were  the  worst  classes 
of  Irish  emigrants,  infuriated  by  artful  appeals,  and 
maddened  by  the  atrocious  whiskey  of  thousands  of 
grog-shops. 

By  far  the  most  infamous  part  of  these  cruelties  w-as 
that  which  wreaked  ever)^  species  of  torture  and  linger- 
ing death  upon  the  colored  people  of  the  cit}',  —  men, 
women,  and  children,  old  and  young,  strong  and 
feeble  alike.  Hundreds  of  these  fell  victims  to  the 
prejudice  fostered  by  public  opinion,  incorporated  in 
our  statute-books,  sanctioned  by  our  laws,  which  here 
and  thus  found  legitimate  outgrowth  and  action.  The 
horrors  which  blanched  the  face  of  Christendom  were 
but  the  bloody  har\'est  of  fields  sown  by  society,  by 
cultured  men  and  women,  by  speech,  and  book,  and 
press,  by  professions  and  politics,  nay,  by  the  pulpit 
itself,  and  the  men  who  there  make  God's  truth  a  lie, 
—  garbling  or  denying  the  inspired  declaration  that 
"He  has  made  of  one  blood  all  people  to  dwell 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth  "  ;  and  that  he,  the  All-Just 
and  Merciful  One,  "  is  no  respecter  of  persons." 

Q 


258  JlVm^  Anszucr? 

This  riot,  begun  ostensibly  to  oppose  the  enforce- 
ment of  ?.  single  la\v,  developed  itself  into  a  burn- 
ing and  pillaging  assault  upon  the  homes  and  prop- 
erty of  peaceful  citizens.  To  realize  this,  it  was 
only  necessary  to  walk  the  streets,  if  that  were  pos- 
sible, through  those  days  of  riot  and  conflagration, 
observe  the  materials  gathered  into  the  vast,  moving 
multitudes,  and  scrutinize  the  faces  of  those  of  whom 
they  were  composed,  —  deformed,  idiotic,  drunken, 
imbecile,  povert}^-stricken ;  seamed  with  ever}^  line 
which  v.-retchedness  could  draw  or  vicious  habits 
and  associations  delve.  To  walk  these  streets  and 
look  upon  these  faces  was  like  a  fearful  witnessing 
in  perspective  of  the  last  da}^  when  the  secrets  of 
life,  more  loathsome  than  those  of  death,  shall  be 
laid  bare  in  all  their  hideous  deformit}'  and  ghastly 
shame. 

The  knowledge  of  these  people  and  their  deeds 
w^as  sufficient  to  create  a  paralysis  of  fear,  even  where 
they  were  not  seen.  Indeed,  there  was  terror  ever}^- 
where.  High  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  cultured  and 
ignorant,  all  shivered  in  its  awful  grasp.  Upon 
stately  avenues  and  noisom.e  alleys  it  fell  with  the 
like  blackness  of  darkness.  Women  cried  aloud  to 
God  "^vith  the  same  agonized  entreaty  from  knees 
bent  on  velvet  carpets  or  bare  and  dingy  floors. 
Men  wandered  up  and  down,  prisoners  in  their  own 


What  Anszver?  259 

homes,  and  cursed  or  prayed  with  equal  fury  or 
intensity  whether  the  homes  were  simple  or  splen- 
did. Here  one  surveyed  alf  his  costly  store  of  rare 
and  exquisite  surroundings,  and  shook  his  head  as 
he  gazed,  ominous  and  foreboding.  There,  another 
of  darker  hue  peered  out  from  garret  casement,  or 
cellar  light,  or  broken  window-pane,  and,  shuddering, 
watched  some  woman  stoned  and  beaten  till  she  died  , 
some  child  shot  down,  while  thousands  of  heavy, 
brutal  feet  trod  over  it  till  the  hard  stones  were  red 
with  its  blood,  and  the  little  prostrate  form,  yel 
warm,  lost  every  likeness  of  humanity,  and  lay  there, 
a  sickening  mass  of  mangled  flesh  and  bones  ;  some 
man  assaulted,  clubbed,  overborne,  left  wounded  or 
dying  or  dead,  as  he  fell,  or  tied  to  some  convenient 
tree  or  lamp-post  to  be  hacked  and  hewn,  or  flayed 
and  roasted,  yet  living,  where  he  hung,  —  and  watch- 
ing this,  and  cowering  as  he  watched,  held  his  breath, 
and  waited  his  own  turn,  not  knowing  when  it  might 
come. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


'  In  breathless  quiet,  after  all  their  ills." 

Arnold. 


A  body  of  these  wretches,  fresh  from  some  act  of 
rapine  and  pillage,  had  seen  ]\Irs.  Franklin, 
hastening  home,  and,  opening  the  hue  and  cry,  had 
started  in  full  chase  after  her.  Struck  by  sticks  and 
stones  that  darkened  the  air,  twice  down,  fleeing  as 
those  only  do  who  flee  for  life,  she  gained  her  own 
house,  thinking  there  to  find  security.  Vain  hope ! 
the  door  was  battered  in,  the  windows  demolished, 
the  puny  barriers  between  the  room  in  which  they 
were  gathered  and  the  creatures  in  pursuit,  speedily 
destroyed,  —  and  these  three  turned  to  face  death. 

By  chance,  Surrey  had  his  sword  at  his  side,  and, 
tearing  this  from  its  scabbard,  sprang  to  the  defence, 
• —  a  gallant  intent,  but  what  could  one  weapon  and  one 
arm  do  against  such  odds  as  these  ?  He  was  speedily 
beaten  down  and  flung  aside  by  the  miscreants  who 
swarmed  into  the  room.  It  was  man'ellous  they  did 
not  kill  him  outright.  Doubtless  they  would  have 
done  so  but  for  the  face  propped  against  the  pillows, 
which  caught  their  hungry  eyes.  Soldier  and  woman 
were  alike  forgotten  at  sight  of  this  dying  boy.     Here 


What  Answer?  26 r 

was  a  foeman  worthy  their  steel.  They  gathered 
about  him,  and  with  savage  hands  struck  at  him  and 
the  bed  upon  which  he  lay, 

A  pause  for  a  moment  to  hold  consultation,  crowded 
with  oaths  and  jeers  and  curses ;  obscenity  and  blas- 
phemy too  hideous  to  read  or  record,  —  then  the  cruel 
hands  tore  him  from  his  bed,  dragged  him  over  the 
prostrate  body  of  his  mother,  past  the  senseless 
form  of  his  brave  young  defender,  out  to  the  street. 
Here  they  propped  him  against  a  tree,  to  mock  and 
tonnent  him  ;  to  prick  him,  wound  him,  torture  him  ;  to 
task  endurance  to  its  utmost  limit,  but  not  to  extin- 
guish life.  These  savages  had  no  such  mercy  as  this 
in  their  souls ;  and  when,  once  or  twice  he  fell  away 
into  insensibility,  a  cut  or  blow  administered  with  dev- 
ilish skill  or  strength,  restored  him  to  anguish  and  to 
life. 

Surrey,  bewildered  and  dizzy,  had  recovered  con- 
sciousness, and  sat  gazing  vacantly  around  him,  till 
the  cries  and  yells  without,  the  agonized  face  with- 
in, thrilled  every  nerve  into  feeling.  Starting  up,  he 
rushed  to  the  window,  but  recoiled  at  the  awful  sight. 
Here,  he  saw,  there  was  no  human  power  within 
reach  or  call  that  could  interfere.  The  whole  block, 
from  street  to  street,  was  crowded  with  men  and  boys, 
armed  with  the  armory  of  the  street,  and  rejoicing  like 
veritable  fiends  of  hell  over  the  pangs  of  their  victim. 


262  JJ7/at  Answer? 

Even  in  the  moment  he  stood  there  he  beheld  that 
which  would  haunt  his  memor}-,  did  it  endure  for  a 
century.  At  last,  tired  of  their  sport,  some  of  those 
who  were  just  about  Abram  had  tied  a  rope  about  his 
body,  and  raised  him  to  the  nearest  branch  of  an  over- 
hanging tree  ;  then,  heaping  under  him  the  sticks  and 
clubs  which  were  flung  them  from  all  sides,  set  fire  to 
the  dry,  inflammable  pile,  and  watched,  for  the  moment 
silent,  to  see  it  burn. 

Surrey  fled  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and,  cow- 
ering down,  buried  his  head  in  his  arm  to  shut  out 
the  awful  sight  and  sounds.  But  his  mother,  —  O  mar- 
vellous, inscrutable  mystery  of  mother-love  !  —  his 
mother  knelt  by  the  open  window,  near  which  hung 
her  boy,  and  prayed  aloud,  that  he  might  hear,  for  the 
wrung  body  and  passing  soul.  Great  God  !  that  such 
things  were  possible,  and  thy  heavens  fell  not !  Through 
the  sound  of  falling  blows,  reviling  oaths,  and.hideous 
blasphemy,  through  the  crackling  o£  burning  fagots 
and  lifting  flames,  there  went  out  no  cr}-  for  mercy,  no 
shriek  of  pain,  no  wail  of  despair.  But  when  the  tor- 
ture was  almost  ended,  and  nature  had  yielded  to  this 
work  of  fiends,  the  dying  face  was  turned  towards  his 
mother,  —  the  eyes,  dim  with  the  veil  that  falls  be- 
tween time  and  eternity,  seeking  her  eyes  with  their 
latest  glance,  —  the  voice,  not  weak,  but  clear  and 
thrilling    even    in    death,   cried  for   her  ear,  "  Be  of 


What  Answer  f  263 

good  cheer,  mother  !  they  may  kill  the  body,  but  they 
cannot  touch  the  soul !  "  and  even  with  the  words 
the  great  soul   walked  with  God. 

After  a  while  the  mob  melted  out  of  the  street  to 
seek  new  scenes  of  ravage  and  death  ;  not,  however, 
till  they  had  marked  the  house,  as  those  within 
learned,  for  the  purpose  of  returning,  if  it  should  so 
please  them,  at  some  future  time. 

When  they  were  all  gone,  and  the  way  was  clear, 
these  two  —  the  mother  that  bore  him,  the  elegant 
patrician  who  instinctively  shrank  from  all  unpleasant 
and  painful  things  —  took  down  the  poor  charred 
body,  and  carrying  it  carefully  and  tenderly  into  the 
house  of  a  trembling  neighbor,  who  yet  opened  her 
doors  and  bade  them  in,  composed  it  decently  for  its 
final  rest. 

It  was  drawing  towards  evening,  and  Surrey  was 
eager  to  get  away  from  this  terrible  region,  —  both 
to  take  the  heart-stricken  woman,  thus  thrown  upon 
his  care,  to  some  place  of  rest  and  safety,  and  to  re- 
assure Francesca,  who,  he  knew,  would  be  filled  with 
maddening  anxiety  and  fear  at  his  long  absence. 

At  length  they  ventured  forth  :  no  one  was  in  the 
square  ;  —  turned  at  Fortieth  Street,  —  all  clear ;  — 
went  on  with  hasty  steps  to  the  Avenue,  —  not  a 
soul   in    sight.      "  Safe,  —  thank    God  !  "    exclaimed 


264  ]l7iat  Answer? 

Surrey,  as  he  hurried  his  companion  onward.  Hah 
the  space  to  their  destination  had  been  crossed,  when 
a  band  of  rioters,  rushing  down  the  street  from  the 
sack  and  burning  of  the  Orphan  Asylum,  came  upon 
them.  Defence  seemed  utterly  vain.  Every  house 
was  shut ;  its  windows  closed  and  barred ;  its  in- 
mates gathered  in  some  rear  room.  Escape  and  hope 
appeared  alike  impossible;  but  Surrey,  flinging  his 
charge  behind  him,  with  drawn  sword,  face  to  the 
on-sweeping  hordes,  backed  down  the  street.  The 
combination — a  negro  woman,  a  soldier's  uniform — • 
intensified  the  mad  fur)^  of  the  mob,  which  was 
nevertheless  held  at  bay  by  the  heroic  front  and 
gleaming  steel  of  their  single  adversar}\  Only  for  a 
moment !  Then,  not  venturing  near  him,  a  shower  of 
bricks  and  stones  hurtled  through  the  air,  falling 
about  and  upon  him. 

At  this  instant  a  voice  called,  "  This  way !  this 
way !  For  God's  sake  !  quick  !  quick  !  "  and  he  saw 
a  friendly  black  face  and  hand  thrust  from  an  area 
window.  Still  covering  with  his  body  his  defenceless 
charge,  he  moved  rapidly  towards  this  refuge.  Rapid 
as  was  the  motion,  it  was  not  speedy  enough ;  he 
reached  the  railing,  caught  her  with  his  one  powerful 
arm,  imbued  now  with  a  giant's  strength,  flung  her 
over  to  the  waiting  hands  that  seized  and  dragged  her 
in,  pausing  for  an  instant,  ere  he  leaped  himself,  to 


What  A7iswer?  265 

beat  back  a  half-dozen  of  the  foremost  miscreants, 
who  would  else  have  captured  their  prey,  just  vanish- 
ing from  sight.  Sublime,  yet  fatal  delay!  but  an 
instant,  yet  in  that  instant  a  thousand  forms  sur- 
rounded him,  disarmed  him,  overcame  him,  and  beat 
him  down. 

Meanwhile  what  of  Francesca?  The  morning 
passed,  and  with  its  passing  came  terrible  rumors  of 
assault  and  death.  The  afternoon  began,  wore  on,  — ■ 
the  rumors  deepened  to  details  of  awful  facts  and  re- 
alities ;  and  he  —  he,  with  his  courage,  his  fatal  dress 
—  was  absent,  was  on  those  death-crowded  streets. 
She  wandered  from  room  to  room,  forgetting  her 
reserve,  and  accosting  every  soul  she  met  for  later 
news,  —  for  information  which,  received,  did  but  tor- 
ture her  with  more  intolerable  pangs,  and  send  her 
to  her  knees  ;  though,  kneeling,  she  could  not  pray, 
only  cry  out  in  some  dumb,  inarticulate  fashion, 
"  God  be  merciful !  " 

The  afternoon  was  spent ;  the  day  gone ;  the  sum- 
mer twilight  deepening  into  night ;  and  still  he  did 
not  come.  She  had  caught  up  her  hat  and  mantle 
with  some  insane  intention  of  rushing  into  the  wide, 
wild  city,  on  a  frenzied  search,  when  two  gentlemen 
passing  by  her  door,  talking  of  the  all-absorbing 
theme,  arrested  her  ear  and  attention. 

"The  house  ought  to  be  guarded!     These  devils 

12 


266  What  A7iswcr? 

will  be  here  presently,  —  they  are  on  the  Avenue 
now." 

"  Good  God  !  are  you  certain  ?  " 

"  Certain." 

"  You  may  well  be,"  said  a  third  voice,  as  another 
step  joined  theirs.  "They  are  just  above  Thirtieth 
Street.  I  was  coming  down  the  Avenue,  and  saw 
them  myself.  I  don't  know  what  my  fate  would  have 
been  in  this  dress,'"' —  Francesca  knew  from  this  that  he 
who  talked  was  of  the  police  or  soldiery,  —  "  but  they 
were  engaged  in  fighting  a  young  officer,  who  made  a 
splendid  defence  before  they  cut  him  down  ;  his  cour- 
age was  magnificent.  It  makes  my  blood  curdle  to 
think  of  it.  A  fair-haired,  gallant-looking  fellow,  with 
only  one  arm.  I  could  do  nothing  for  him,  of  course, 
and  should  have  been  killed  had  I  stayed  ;  so  I  ran 
for  life.  But  I  don't  think  I  '11  ever  quite  forgive  my- 
self for  not  rushing  to  the  rescue,  and  taking  my 
chance  with  him." 

She  did  not  stay  to  hear  the  closing  words.  Out 
of  the  room,  past  them,  like  a  spirit,  —  through  the 
broad  halls,  —  down  the  wide  stairways,  —  on  to  the 
street,  —  up  the  long  street,  deserted  here,  but  O, 
with  what  a  crowd  beyond ! 

A  company  of  soldiers,  paltry  in  number,  yet  each 
with  loaded  rifle  and  bayonet  set,  charged  past  her  at 
double-quick  upon  this  crowd,  which  gave  way  slowly 


IV/iat  Answer?  267 

and  sullenly  at  its  approach,  holding  with  desperate 
ferocity  and  determination  to  whatever  ghastly  work 
had  been  employing  their  hands,  —  dropped  at  last,  — 
left  on  the  stones,  —  the  soldiers  between  it  and  the 
mob,  —  silent,  motionless,  —  she  saw  iL,  and  knew 
it  where  it  lay.  O  woful  sight  and  knowledge  for 
loving  eyes  and  bursting  heart! 

Ere  she  reached  it  some  last  stones  were  flung  by 
the  retreating  crowd,  a  last  shot  fired  in  the  air,  — 
fired  at  random,  but  speeding  with  as  unerring  aim 
to  her  aching,  anguished  breast,  death-freighted  and 
life-destroying,  —  but  not  till  she  had  reached  her 
destined  point  and  end ;  not  till  her  feet  failed  close 
to  that  bruised  and  silent  form  ;  not  till  she  had  sunk 
beside  it,  gathered  it  in  her  fair  young  arms,  and  pil- 
lowed its  beautiful  head  —  from  which  streamed  golden 
hair,  dabbled  and  blood-bestained  —  upon  her  faith- 
ful heart. 

There  it  stirred ;  the  eyes  unclosed  to  meet  hers,  a 
gleam  of  divine  love  shining  through  their  fading  fire  ; 
the  battered,  stiffened  arm  lifted,  as  to  fold  her  in  the 
old  familiar  caress.  "Darling  —  die  —  to  make  — 
free  "  —  came  in  gasps  from  the  sweet,  yet  whitening 
lips.  Then  she  lay  still.  Where  his  breath  blew 
across  her  hair  it  waved,  and  her  bosom  moved  above 
the  slow  and  labored  beating  of  his  heart ;  but,  save 
for  this,  she  was  as  quiet  as  the  peaceful  dead  within 


268  IV/iat  Anszver? 

their  graves, — and,  like  them,  done  with  the  noise 
and  strife  of  time  forever. 

For  him,  —  the  shadows  deepened  where  he  lay,  — 
the  stars  came  out  one  by  one,  looking  down  with 
clear  and  solemn  eyes  upon  this  wreck  of  fair  and 
beautiful  things,  ^vrought  by  earthly  hate  and  the  aw- 
ful passions  of  men,  —  then  veiled  their  light  in  heavy 
and  sombre  clouds.  The  rain  fell  upon  the  noble 
face  and  floating,  sunny  hair,  —  washing  them  free 
of  soil,  and  dark  and  fearful  stains  ;  moistening  the 
fevered,  burning  lips,  and  cooling  the  bruised  and 
aching  frame.  How  passed  the  long  night  with  that 
half-insensible  soul  ?  God  knoweth.  The  secrets  of 
that  are  hidden  in  the  eternity  to  which  it  now  be- 
longs. Questionless,  ministering  spirits  drew  near, 
freighted  with  balm  and  inspiration  ;  for  when  the 
shadows  fled,  and  the  next  mornings  sun  shone  upon 
these  silent  forms,  it  revealed  faces  radiant  as  with 
some  celestial  fire,  and  beatified  as  reflecting  the  smile 
of  God. 

The  inmates  of  the  house  before  which  lay  this 
solemn  mystery,  rising  to  face  a  new-made  day,  look- 
ing out  from  their  windows  to  mark  what  traces  were 
left  of  last  night's  devastations,  beheld  this  awful  yet 
sublime  sight. 

"A  prejudice  which,  I  trust,  will  never  end,"  had 


IV/iat  Answer?  269 

Mr.  Surrey  said,  in  bidding  adieu  to  his  son  but  a 
few  short  hours  before.  This  prejudice,  hving  and 
active,  had  now  thus  brought  death  and  desolation  to 
his  own  doors.  "  How  unsearchable  are  the  judg- 
ments of  God,  and  his  ways  past  finding  out !  " 


CHAPTER    XX 


"Drink,  —  for  thy  necessity  is  yet  greater    than  mine."  —  Sir   Philip 
Sidney. 


THE  hospital  boat,  going  out  of  Beaufort,  was  a 
sad,  yet  great  sight.  It  was  but  necessar}'  to 
look  around  it  to  see  that  the  men  here  gathered  had 
stood  on  the  slippery-  battle-sod,  and  scorned  to  flinch. 
You  heard  no  cries,  scarcely  a  groan;  whatever 
anguish  wrung  them  as  they  were  lifted  into  their 
berths,  or  were  turned  or  raised  for  comfort,  found 
little  outward  sign,  —  a  long,  gasping  breath  now  and 
then ;  a  suppressed  exclamation ;  sometimes  a  laugh, 
to  cover  what  would  else  be  a  cry  of  mortal  agony ; 
almost  no  swearing ;  these  men  had  been  too  near  the 
aw^ful  realities  of  death  and  eternity,  some  of  them 
were  still  too  near,  to  make  a  mock  at  either.  Having 
demonstrated  themselves  heroes  in  action,  they  would, 
one  and  all,  be  equally  heroes  in  the  hour  of  suffering, 
or  on  the  bed  of  lingering  death. 

Jim,  so  wounded  as  to  make  e\ery  movement  a 
pang,  had  been  carefully  carried  in  on  a  stretcher,  and 
as  carefully  lifted  into  a  middle  berth. 

"Good,"  said  one  of  the  men,  as  he  eased  him 
down  on  his  pillow. 


What  Answer?  271 

"  What 's  good  ?  "  queried  Jim. 

"  The  berth ;  middle  berth.  Put  }T»u  in  as  easy  as 
into  the  lowest  one  :  bad  lifting  such  a  leg  as  yours 
into  the  top  one,  and  it's  the  comfortablest  of  the 
three  when  you  're  in." 

"  O,  that 's  it,  is  it  ?  all  right  \  glad  I  'm  here  then ; 
getting  in  did  n't  hurt  more  than  a  flea-bite,"  —  saying 
which  Jim  turned  his  face  away  to  put  his  teeth  down 
hard  on  a  lip  already  bleeding.  The  WTench  to  his 
shattered  leg  was  excruciating,  "But  then,"  as  he 
announced  to  himself,  "  no  snivelling,  James  j  you  're 
not  going  to  make  a  spooney  of  yourself."  Presently 
he  moved,  and  lay  quietly  watching  the  others  they 
were  bringing  in. 

"  Why ! "  he  called,  "  that 's  Bertie  Curtis,  ain't  it  ?  " 
as  a  slight,  beautiful-faced  boy  was  carried  past  him, 
and  raised  to  his  place. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  answered  one  of  the  men,  shortly,  to 
cover  some  strong  feeling. 

Jim  leaned  out  of  his  berth,  regardless  of  his  pro- 
testing leg,  canteen  in  hand.  "  Here,  Bertie  !  "  he 
called,  "  my  canteen  's  full  of  fresh  water,  just  filled. 
I  know  it'll  taste  good  to  you." 

The  boy's  fine  face  flushed.  "O,  thank  you.  Given, 
it  would  taste  deliciously,  but  I  can't  take  it,"  —  glan- 
cing down.  Jim  followed  the  look,  to  see  that  both 
arms  were  gone,  close  to  the  graceful,  boyish  form  3 


2/2  W/tat  Answer? 

seeing  which  his  face  twitched  painfully,  —  not  with 
his  own  suffering,  —  and  for  a  moment  words  failed 
him.  Just  then  came  up  one  of  the  sanitary  nurses 
with  some  cooling  drink,  and  fresh,  wet  bandages  for 
the  fevered  stumps. 

Great  drops  were  standing  on  Bertie's .  forehead, 
and  ominous  gray  shadows  had  already  settled  about 
the  mouth,  and  under  the  long,  shut  lashes.  Looking 
at  the  face,  so  young,  so  refined,  some  mother's  pride 
and  darling,  the  nurse  brushed  back  tenderly  the  fair 
hair,  murmuring,  "  Poor  fellow  ! " 

The  eyes  unclosed  quickly  :  "  There  are  no  poor  fel- 
lows here,  sir  !  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  brave  fellow,  then  !  " 

"  I  did  but  do  my  duty,"  —  a  smile  breaking  through 
the  gathering  mists. 

Here  some  poor  fellow,  —  poor  indeed,  —  delirious 
with  fever,  called  out,  "  Mother !  mother !  I  want  to 
see  my  mother  !  " 

Tears  rushed  to  the  clear,  steady  eyes,  dimmed 
them,  dropped  dow^n  unchecked  upon  the  face. 
The  nurse,  with  a  sob  choking  in  his  throat,  softly 
raised  his  hand  to  brush  them  away.  "  Mother,"  Ber- 
tie whispered,  — "  mother  !  "  and  was  gone  where  God 
wipes  away  the  tears  from  all  eyes. 

For  the  space  of  five  minutes,  as  Jim  said  after- 
wards, in  telling  about  it,  "  that  boat  was  like  a  meet- 


llVia^  Answer?  273 

ing-house."  Used  as  they  were  to  death  in  all  forms, 
more  than  one  brave  fellow's  eye  was  dim  as  the  silent 
shape  was  carried  away  to  make  place  for  the  stricken 
living,  —  one  of  whom  was  directly  brought  in,  and  the 
stretcher  put  down  near  Jim. 

"  What 's  up  ? "  he  called,  for  the  man's  face  was 
turned  from  him,  and  his  wounded  body  so  covered  as 
to  give  no  clew  to  its  condition.  "  What 's  wrong  ?  " 
seeing  the  bearers  did  not  offer  to  lift  him,  and  that 
they  were  anxiously  scanning  the  long  rows  of  berths. 

"  Berth 's  wrong,"  one  of  them  answered. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  the  berth  ?  " 

"  Matter  enough  !  not  a  middle  one  nor  a  lower 
one  empt}\" 

"  Well,"  called  a  wounded  boy  from  the  third  tier, 
"  plent}^  of  room  up  here  ;  sky-parlor,  —  airy  lodgings, 
—  all  fine,  —  I  see  a  lot  of  empt}'  houses  that  '11  take 
him  in." 

"  Like  enough,  —  but  he  's  about  blown  to  pieces," 
said  the  bearer  in  a  low  voice,  "  and  it  '11  be  aw — ful 
putting  him  up  there;  however,"  —  commencing  to  take 
off  the  light  cover. 

"  Helloa  !  "  cried  Jim,  "  that 's  a  dilapidated-looking 
leg,"  —  his  head  out,  looking  at  it.  "  Stop  a  bit !  " — 
body  half  after  the  head,  —  "}'ou  just  stop  that,  and 
come  here  and  catch  hold  of  a  fellow ;  now  put  me 
up  there.  I  reckon  I  '11  bear  hoisting  better  'n  he 
12*  R 


2/4  W/iat  Answer? 

will,  any^vay.  Ugh  !  ah  1  um  !  owh  !  here  we  are ! 
bully ! " 

If  Jim  had  been  of  the  fainting  or  praying  order  he 
would  certainly  have  fainted  or  prayed  ;  as  it  was,  he 
said  "  Bully  ! "  but  lay  for  a  while  thereafter  still  as  a 
mouse. 

"  Given,  you  're  a  brick  !  "  one  of  the  boys  was 
apostrophizing  him.  Jim  took  no  notice.  "  And  your 
man  's  in,  safe  and  sound  " ;  he  turned  at  that,  and 
leaned  forward,  as  well  as  he  could,  to  look  at  the  oc- 
cupant of  his  late  bed. 

"  Jemime  !  "  he  cried,  when  he  saw  the  face.  "  I 
say,  boys  !  it 's  Ercildoune  —  Robert  —  flag  —  Wagner 
—  hurray  —  let 's  give  three  cheers  for  the  color-ser- 
geant, —  long  may  he  wave  !  " 

The  men,  propped  up  or  lying  down,  gave  the  three 
cheers  ^^ith  a  will,  and  then  three  more  ;  and  then,  de- 
lighted with  their  performance,  three  more  after  that, 
Jim  winding  up  the  whole  with  an  "  a-a-ah,-Tiger  !  " 
that  made  them  all  laugh  ;  then  relapsing  into  silence 
and  a  hard  battle  with  pain. 

A  wear)^  voyage,  —  a  weary  journey  thereafter  to  the 
Northern  hospitals,  —  some  dying  by  the  way,  and  low- 
ered through  the  shifting,  restless  waves,  or  buried 
with  hast>^  yet  kindly  hands  in  alien  soil,  —  accounted 
strangers  and  foemen  in  the  land  of  their  birth.  God 
grant  that  no  tread  of  rebellion  in  the  years  to  come, 


W/iat  Answer  f  275 

nor  thunder  of  contending  armies,  may  disturb  their 
peace ! 

Some  stopped  in  the  heat  and  dust  of  Washington 
to  be  nursed  and  tended  in  the  great  barracks  of 
hospitals, — uncomfortable-looking  without,  clean  and 
spacious  and  admirable  within  ;  some  to  their  homes, 
on  long-desired  and  eagerly  welcomed  furloughs,  there 
to  be  cured  speedily,  the  body  swayed  by  the  mind; 
some  to  suffer  and  die ;  some  to  struggle  against 
winds  and  tides  of  mortality  and  conquer,  —  yet  scarred 
and  maimed ;  some  to  go  out,  as  giants  refreshed 
with  new  wine,  to  take  their  places  once  more  in  the 
great  conflict,  and  fight  there  faithfully  to  the  end. 

Among  these  last  was  Jim ;  but  not  till  after  many 
a  hard  battle,  and  buffet,  and  back-set  did  life  triumph 
and  strength  prevail.  One  thing  which  sadly  retarded 
his  recovery  was  his  incessant  anxiety  about  Sallie,  and 
his  longing  to  see  her  once  more.  He  had  himself, 
after  his  first  hurt,  written  her  that  he  was  slightly 
wounded ;  but  when  he  reached  Washington,  and  the 
surgeon,  looking  at  his  shattered  leg,  talked  about  am- 
putation and  death,  Jim  decided  that  Sallie  should  not 
know  a  word  of  all  this  till  something  definite  was  pro- 
nounced. 

"  She  ought  n't  to  have  an  ugly,  one-legged  fellow, 
he  said,  "  to  drag  round  with  her ;  and,  if  she  knows 
how  bad  it  is,  she  '11  post  straight  down  here,  to  nurse 


2/6  II Via t  AnszucTf 

and  look  after  me, —  I  know  her  !  and  she  '11  have  me 
in  the  end,  out  of  sheer  pity ;  and  I  ain't  going  to 
take  any  such  mean  advantage  of  her  :  no,  sir-ee,  not 
if  I  know  myself  If  I  get  well,  safe  and  sound,  I  '11 
go  to  her  ;  and,  if  I  'm  going  to  die,  I  '11  send  for  her ; 
so  I  '11  wait,"  —  which  he  did. 

He  found,  however,  that  it  was  a  great  deal  easier 
making  the  decision,  than  keeping  it  when  made. 
Sallie,  hearing  nothing  from  him, — supposing  him 
still  in  the  South,  —  fearful  as  she  had  all  along  been 
that  she  stood  on  uncertain  ground, — Mrs.  Surrey 
away  in  New  York,  —  and  Robert  Ercildoune,  as  the 
papers  asserted  in  their  published  lists,  mortally 
wounded,  —  having  no  indirect  means  of  communica- 
tion with  him,  and  fearing  to  ^\Tite  again  without  some 
sign  from  him,  —  was  sorrowing  in  silence  at  home. 

The  silence  reacted  on  him ;  not  realizing  its  cause 
he  grew  fretful  and  impatient,  and  the  fretfulness  and 
impatience  told  on  his  leg,  intensified  his  fever,  and 
put  the  day  of  recovery  —  if  recovery  it  was  to  be  — 
farther  into  the  future. 

"  See  here,  my  man,"  —  said  the  quick  little  sur- 
geon one  day,  "  you  're  worrying  about  something. 
This  '11  never  do ;  if  you  don't  stop  it,  you  '11  die,  as 
sure  as  fate  ;  and  you  might  as  well  make  up  your 
mind  to  it  at  once,  —  so,  now  !  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  Jim,  "  it 's  as  good  a  time 


W/mt  A7iszver?  277 

to  die  now,  I  reckon,  as  often  happens  ;  but  I  ain't 
dead  yet,  not  by  a  long  shot  ;  and  I  ain't  going  to  die 
neither  ;  so,  now,  yourself ! " 

The  doctor  laughed.  "  All  right ;  if  you  '11  get  up 
that  spirit,  and  keep  it,  I  '11  bet  my  pile  on  your  recov- 
ery, —  but  you  '11  have  to  stop  fretting.  You  've  got 
something  on  your  mind  that 's  troubling  you  ;  and  the 
sooner  you  get  rid  of  it,  if  you  can,  the  better.  That 's 
all  I  've  got  to  say."     And  he  marched  off. 

"Get  rid  of  it,"  mused  Jim,  "how  in  thunder '11 
I  get  rid  of  it  if  I  don't  hear  from  Sallie  }  Let  me  see 
—  ah  !  I  have  it !  "  and  looking  more  cheerful  on  the 
instant  he  lay  still,  watching  for  the  doctor  to  come 
down  the  ward  once  more.  "  Helloa  !  "  he  called, 
then.  "  Helloa !  "  responded  the  doctor,  coming  over 
to  him,  "  what 's  the  go  now  ?  you  're  improved  al- 
ready." 

"  Got  any  objection  to  telling  a  lie  ? "  —  this  might 
be  called  coming  to  the  point. 

"  That  depends  —  "said  the  doctor. 

"  Well,  all 's  fair  in  love  and  war,  they  say.  This  is 
for  love.     Help  a  fellow  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  —  if  I  can,  —  and  the  fellow  's  a  good 
one,  like  Jim  Given.     What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"Well,  I  want  a  letter  written,  and  I  can't  do  it  my- 
self, you  know,"  —  looking  down  at  his  still  bandaged 
arm,  —  "  likewise  I  want  a  lie  told  in  it,  and  these 


278  What  Answer? 

ladies  here  are  all  angels,  and  of  course  you  can't  ask 
an  angel  to  tell  a  lie,  —  no  offence  to  you;  so  if  you 
can  take  the  time,  and  '11  do  it,  I  '11  stand  your  ever- 
lasting debtor,  and  shoulder  the  responsibility  if  you 
're  afraid  of  the  weight." 

"  What  sort  of  a  lie  ?  " 

"  A  capital  one ;  listen.  I  want  a  young  lady  to 
know  that  I  'm  wounded  in  the  arm,  —  you  see  ?  not 
bad;  nor  nothing  over  which  she  need  worry,  and 
nothing  that  hurts  me  much;  and,  I  ain't  damaged 
in  any  other  way  ;  legs  not  mentioned  in  this  concern, 
—  you  understand  ?  "  The  doctor  nodded.  "  But 
it 's  tied  up  my  hand,  so  that  I  have  to  get  you  to  say 
all  this  for  me.  I  '11  be  well  pretty  soon ;  and,  if  I 
can  get  a  furlough,  I  '11  be  up  in  Philadelphia  in  a 
jiffy, —  so  she  can  just  prepare  for  the  infliction,  &c. 
Comprendy  ?     And  '11  you  do  it?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will,  if  you  don't  want  the  truth  told, 
and  the  fib  '11  do  you  any  good  ;  and,  upon  my  word, 
the  way  you  're  looking  I  really  think  it  will.  So  now 
for  it." 

Thus  the  letter  was  written,  and  read,  and  re-read, 
to  make  sure  that  there  was  nothing  in  it  to  alarm 
Sallie ;  and,  being  satisfactor}'  on  that  head,  was 
finally  sent  away,  to  rejoice  the  poor  girl  who  had 
waited,  and  watched,  and  hoped  for  it  through  such  a 
weary  time.     When  she  answered  it,  her  letter  was 


What  Anszver?  279 

so  full  of  happiness  and  solicitude,  and  a  love  that, 
in  spite  of  herself,  spoke  out  in  every  line,  that  Jim 
furtively  kissed  it,  and  read  it  into  tatters  in  the  first 
few  hours  of  its  possession ;  then  tucking  it  away  in 
his  hospital  shirt,  over  his  heart,  proceeded  to  get  well 
as  fast  as  fast  could  be. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  a  few  wrecks  afterwards,  as 
Jim  was  going  home  on  his  coveted  sick-leave,  "  Mr. 
Thomas  Carlyle  calls  fibs  wind-bags.  If  that  singular 
remedy  would  work  to  such  a  charm  with  all  my  men, 
I  'd  tell  lies  with  impunity.  Good  by,  Jim,  and  the 
best  of  good  luck  to  you." 

"The  same  to  you,  Doctor,  and  I  hope  you  may 
always  find  a  friend  in  need,  to  lie  for  you.  Good  by, 
and  God  bless  you ! "  wringing  his  hand  hard,  — 
"  and  now,  hurrah  for  home !  " 

"  Hurrah  it  is !  "  cried  the  little  surgeon  after  him, 
as,  happy  and  proud,  he  limped  down  the  ward,  and 
turned  his  face  towards  home. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

"  Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm."  —  Gray. 

JIM  scarcely  felt  the  jolting  of  the  ambulance  over 
the  city  stones,  and  his  impatience  and  eagerness 
to  get  across  the  intervening  space  made  dust,  and 
heat,  and  weariness  of  travel  seem  but  as  feather 
weights,  not  to  be  cared  for,  nor  indeed  considered  at 
all  ;  though,  in  fact,  his  arm  complained,  and  his  leg 
ached  distressingly,  and  he  was  faint  and  weak  with- 
out confessing  it  long  before  the  tiresome  journey 
reached  its  end. 

"No  matter,"  he  said  to  himself;  "it  '11  be  all 
well,  or  forgotten,  at  least,  when  I  see  Sallie  once 
more  ;  and  so,  what  odds  ?  " 

The  end  was  gained  at  last,  and  he  would  have 
gone  to  her  fast  as  certain  Rosinantes,  yclept  hack- 
horses,  could  carry  him,  but,  stopping  for  a  moment  to 
consider,  he  thought,  "  No,  that  will  never  do !  Go 
to  her  looking  like  such  a  guy?  Nary  time.  I  '11  get 
scrubbed,  and  put  on  a  clean  shirt,  and  make  myself 
decent,  before  she  sees  me.  She  always  used  to  look 
nice  as  a  new  pin,  and  she  liked  me  to  look  so  too  ; 
so  I  'd  better  put  my  best  foot  foremost  when  she 


W/iat  Anszverf  281 

has  n't  laid  eyes  on  me  for  such  an  age.  I  'm  fright 
enough,  anyway,  goodness  knows,  with  my  thinness, 
and  my  old  lame  leg ;  so  —  "  sticking  his  head  out 
of  the  window,  and  using  his  lungs  with  astonishing 
vigor  —  "  Driver !  streak  like  lightning,  will  you,  to  the 
*  Merchants'?  and  you  shall  have  extra  fare." 

"  Hold  your  blab  there,"  growled  the  driver ;  "  I 
ain't  such  a  pig  yet  as  to  take  double  fare  from  a 
wounded  soldier.  You  '11  pay  me  well  at  half-price,  — 
when  we  get  where  you  want  to  go,"  —  which  they  did 
soon. 

"  No  !  "  said  Jehu,  thrusting  back  part  of  the  money, 
"  I  ain't  agoin'  to  take  it,  so  you  need  n't  poke  it  out  at 
me.  I  'm  all  right ;  or,  if  I  ain't,  I  '11  make  it  up  on 
the  next  broadcloth  or  officer  I  carry  j  never  you  fear  ! 
us  fellows  knows  how  to  take  care  of  ourselves,  you  'd 
better  believe ! "  which  statement  Jim  would  have 
known  to  be  truth,  without  the  necessity  of  repetition, 
had  he  been  one  of  the  aforesaid  "broadcloths,"  or 
"  officers,"  and  thus  better  acquainted  with  the  genus 
hack-driver  in  the  ordinary  exercise  of  its  profession. 

As  it  was,  he  shook  hands  with  the  fellow,  pocketed 
the  surplus  change,  made  his  way  into  the  hotel,  was 
in  his  room,  in  his  bath,  under  the  barber's  hands, 
cleaned,  shaved,  brushed,  polished,  shining, — as  he 
himself  would  have  declared,  "  in  a  jiffy."  Then,  de- 
ciding  himself  to   be  presentable  to  the  lady  of  his 


282  JJViiU  Answer? 

heart,  took  his  crutch  and  salHed  forth,  as  good-looking 
a  young  fellow,  spite  of  the  wooden  appendage,  as  any 
the  sun  shone  upon  in  all  the  big  city,  and  as  happy, 
as  it  was  bright. 

He  knew  where  to  go,  and,  by  help  of  street-cars  and 
other  legs  than  his  own,  he  was  there  speedily.  He 
knew  the  very  room  towards  which  to  turn  ;  and,  reach- 
ing it,  paused  to  look  in  through  the  half-open  door,  — 
delighted  thus  to  watch  and  listen  for  a  little  space 
unseen. 

Sallie  was  sitting,  her  handsome  head  bent  over  her 
sewing,  —  Frankie  gambolling  about  the  floor. 

"  O  sis  !  don't  you  wish  Jim  would  come  home  ? " 
queried  the  youngster.  "  I  do,  —  I  wish  he  'd  come 
right  straight  away." 

"  Right  straight  away  ?  What  do  you  want  to  see  Jim 
for?" 

"  O,  'cause  he 's  nice  ;  and  'cause  he  '11  take  me  to  tlie 
Theayter ;  and  'cause  he  '11  treat,  —  apples,  and  pea- 
nuts, and  candy,  you  know,  and  —  and  —  ice-cream," 
wiping  the  beads  from  his  little  red  face,  —  the  last 
desideratum  evidently  suggested  by  the  fiery  summer 
heat.  "I  say,  SaUie!"  —  a  pause  —  "won't  you  get 
me  some  ice-cream  this  evening  ? '' 

"  Yes,  Bobbity,  if  you  '11  be  a  good  boy." 

Frankie  looked  dubious  over  that  proposition.  Jim 
never  made  any  such  stipulations  :  so,  after  another 


What  Answer?  283 

pause,  in  which  he  was  probably  considering  the  whole 
subject  with  due  and  becoming  gravity, — •evidently 
desiring  to  hear  his  own  wish  propped  up  by  some- 
body else's  seconding,  —  he  broke  out  again,  "  Now, 
Sallie,  don't  you  just  wish  Jim  would  come  home  ? " 

"  O  Frankie,  don't  I  ? "  cried  the  girl,  dropping  her 
work,  and  stretching  out  her  empty  arms  as  though 
she  would  clasp  some  shape  in  the  air. 

Frankie,  poor  child  !  innocently  imagining  the  prof- 
fered embrace  was  for  him,  ran  forward,  for  he  was  an 
affectionate  little  soul,  to  give  Sallie  a  good  hug,  but 
found  himself  literally  left  out  in  the  cold ;  no  arms  to 
meet,  and  no  Sallie,  indeed,  to  touch  him.  Something 
big,  burly,  and  blue  loomed  up  on  his  sight,  —  some- 
thing that  was  doing  its  best  to  crush  Sallie  bodily, 
and  to  devour  what  was  not  crushed ;  something  that 
could  say  nothing  by  reason  of  its  lips  being  so  much 
more  pleasantly  engaged,  and  whose  face  waa  invisible 
through  its  extraordinary  proximity  to  somebody  else's 
face  and  hair. 

Frankie,  finding  he  could  gain  neither  sight  nor 
sound  of  notice,  began  to  howl.  But  as  neither  of  the 
hard-hearted  creatures  seemed  to  care  for  the  poor 
little  chap's  howling,  he  fell  upon  the  coat-tails  of  the 
big  blue  obstruction,  and  pulled  at  them  lustily,  — 
not  to  say  viciously,  —  till  their  owner  turned,  and 
beheld  him  panting  and  fiery. 


284  JV/ial  Anszvcr? 

"  Helloa,  youngster  !  what  's  to  pay  now  ?  " 

"  Wow !  if  't  ain't  Jim.  Hooray  !  "  screeched  the 
youngster,  first  embracing  the  blue  legs,  and  then  pro- 
ceeding to  execute  a  dance  upon  his  head.  "  Te,  te,  di 
di,  idde  i-dum,"  he  sang,  coming  feet  down,  finally. 

Evidently  the  bad  boy's  language  had  been  cor- 
rupted by  his  street  confreres ;  it  was  a  missionary 
ground  upon  which  Sallie  entered,  more  or  less  faith- 
fully, every  day  to  hoe  and  weed ;  but  of  this  last 
specimen-plant  she  took  no  notice,  save  to  laugh  as 
Jim,  catching  him  up,  first  kissed  him,  then  gave  him 
a  shake  and  a  small  spank,  and,  thrusting  a  piece 
of  currency  into  his  hand,  whisked  him  outside  the 
door  with  a  "  Come,  shaver,  decamp,  and  treat  your- 
self to-day,"  and  had  it  shut  and  fastened  in  a  twink- 
ling. 

"  O  Jim  ! "  she  cried  then,  her  soul  in  her  hand- 
some eye^. 

"  O  Sallie  !  "  —  and  he  had  her  fast  and  tight  once 
more. 

An  ineffable  blank,  punctuated  liberally  with  sound- 
ing exclamation  points,  and  strongly  marked  periods, 
—  though  how  or  why  a  blank  should  be  punctuated 
at  all,  only  blissful  lovers  could  possibly  define. 

"  Jim,  dear  Jim  ! "  whispering  it,  and  snuggling  her 
blushing  face  closer  to  the  faded  blue,  "  can  you  love 
me  after  all  that  has  happened  ?  " 


What  Ansivei^?  285 

"  Come  now  !  can  I  love  you,  my  beauty  ?  Slightly, 
I  should  think.  O,  te,  te,  di  di,  idde  i-dum,"  —  sing- 
ing Frank's  little  song  with  his  big,  gay  voice,  —  "  I 
'm  happy  as  a  king." 

Happy  as  a  king,  that  was  plain  enough.  And 
what  shall  be  said  of  her,  as  he  sat  down,  and,  resting 
the  wounded  leg,  —  stiff  and  sore  yet,  — held  Sallie 
on  his  other  knee,  —  then  fell  to  admiring  her  while 
she  stroked  his  mustache  and  his  crisp,  curling  hair, 
looking  at  both  and  at  him  altogether  with  an  ex- 
.  pression  of  contented  adoration  in  her  eyes. 

Frank,  tired  of  prowling  round  the  door,  candy  in 
hand,  here  thrust  his  head  in  at  the  window,  and, 
unfortunately  for  his  plans,  sneezed.  "Mutual-ad- 
miration society  ! "  he  cried  at  that,  seeing  that  he 
was  detected  in  any  case,  and  running  away,  —his  fun 
spoiled  as  soon  as  it  began. 

"  We  are  a  handsome  couple,"  laughed  Jim,  hold- 
ing back  her  face  between  both  hands,  —  "  ain't  we, 
now  ? " 

Yes,  they  were,  — no  mistake  about  that,  handsome 
as  pictures. 

And  merry  as  birds,  through  all  of  his  short  stay. 
They  would  see  no  danger  in  the  future:  Jim  had 
been  scathed  in  time  past  so  often,  yet  come  out  safe 
and  sound,  that  they  would  have  no  fear  for  what  was 
to  befall  him  in  time  to  come.     If  they  had,  neither 


286  JlViat  A7zs7vcr? 

showed  it  to  the  other.  Jim  thought,  "  Sallie  would 
break  her  heart,  if  she  knew  just  what  is  down  there, 
—  so  it  would  be  a  pity  to  talk  about  it "  ;  and  Sallie 
thought,  "  It  's  right  for  Jim  to  go,  and  I  won't  say 
a  word  to  keep  him  back,  no  matter  how  I  feel." 

The  furlough  was  soon  —  ah  !  how  soon  —  out, 
the  days  of  happiness  over  ;  and  Jim,  holding  her  in 
a  last  close  embrace,  said  his  farewell :  "  Come,  Sallie, 
you  're  not  to  ciy  now,  and  make  me  a  coward.  It  '11 
only  be  for  a  little  while  ;  the  Rebs  canU  stand  it 
much  longer,  and  then  —  " 

"  Ah,  Jim  !  but  if  you  should  —  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  sha'n't,  you  see  ;  not  a  bit  of  it ;  don't 
you  go  to  think  it.  *  I  bear '  —  what  is  it  ?  O  — 
'  a  charmed  life,'  as  Mr.  Macbeth  says,  and  you  '11  see 
me  back  right  and  tight,  and  up  to  time.  One  kiss 
more,  dear.  God  bless  you  !  good  by  !  "  and  he  was 
gone. 

She  leaned  out  of  the  window,  —  she  smiled  after 
him,  kissed  her  hand,  waved  her  handkerchief,  so  long 
as  he  could  see  them,  — till  he  had  turned  a  corner 
way  down  the  street,  —  and  smile,  and  hand,  and 
handkerchief  were  lost  to  his  sight ;  then  flung  herself 
on  the  floor,  and  cried  as  though  her  very  heart  would 
break.  "God  send  him  home, —  send  him  safe  and 
soon  home  !  "  she  implored  ;  entreaty  made  for  how 
many  loved   ones,  by  how  many  aching  hearts,  that 


What  Ajiszver?  287 

speedily  lost  the  need  of  saying  amen  to  any  such 
petition, — the  prayer  for  the  living  lost  in  mourning  for 
the  dead.  Heaven  grant  that  no  soul  that  reads  this 
ever  may  have  the  like  cause  to  offer  such  prayer 
again ! 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

"When  we  see  the  dishonor  of  a  thing,  then  it  is  time  to  renounce  it."  — 
Plutarch. 

A  LETTER  which  Sallie  ^\Tote  to  Jim  a  few  weeks 
after  his  departure  tells  its  own  story,  and  hence 
shall  be  repeated  here. 

Philadelphi.'v,  October  29,  1863. 

Dear  Jim  :  — 

I  take  my  pen  in  hand  this  morning  to  write  you  a 
letter,  and  to  tell  you  the  news,  though  I  don't  know 
much  of  the  last  except  about  Frankie  and  myself. 
However,  I  suppose  you  will  care  more  to  hear  that 
than  any  other,  so  I  will  begin. 

Maybe  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  Frankie 
and  I  are  at  Mr.  Ercildoune's.  Well,  we  are, —  and  I 
will  tell  you  how  it  came  about.  Not  long  after  you 
went  away,  Frank  began  to  pine,  and  look  droopy. 
There  was  n't  any  use  in  giving  him  medicine,  for  it 
did  n't  do  him  a  bit  of  good.  He  could  n't  eat,  and  he 
did  n't  sleep,  and  I  was  at  my  wits'  ends  to  know  what 
to  do  for  him. 

One  day  Mrs.  Lee,  —  that  Mr.  Ercildoune's  house- 
keeper, —  an  old  English  lady  she  is,  and  she  's  lived 
with  him  ever  since  he  was  married,  and  before  he 


IV/iat  Answer?  289 

came  here,  —  a  real  lady,  too,  —  came  in  with  some 
sewing,  some  fine  shirts  for  Mr.  Robert  Ercildoune. 
I  asked  after  him,  and  you  '11  be  glad  to  know  that 
he  's  recovering.  He  did  n't  have  to  lose  his  leg,  as 
they  feared ;  and  his  arm  is  healing ;  and  the  wound 
in  his  breast  getting  well.  Mrs.  Lee  says  she  's  very 
sorry  the  stump  is  n't  longer,  so  that  he  could  wear  a 
Palmer  arm,  —  but -she 's  got  no  complaints  to  make; 
they  're  only  too  glad  and  thankful  to  have  him  living 
at  all,  after  such  a  dreadful  time. 

While  I  was  talking  with  her,  Frankie  called  me 
from  the  next  room,  and  began  to  cry.  You  would  n't 
have  known  him,  —  he  cried  at  everything,  and  was 
so  fretful  and  cross  I  could  scarcely  get  along  at  all. 
When  I  got  him  quiet,  and  came  back,  Mrs.  Lee  says, 
"What's  the  matter  with  Frank?"  so  I  told  her  I 
didn't  know,  —  but  would  she  see  him?  Well,  she 
saw  him,  and  shook  her  head  in  a  bad  sort  of  way 
that  scared  me  a^vfully,  and  I  suppose  she  saw  I  was 
frightened,  for  she  said,  "All  he  wants  is  plenty  of 
fresh  air,  and  good,  wholesome  country  food  and  exer- 
cise." I  can  tell  you,  spite  of  that,  she  went  away, 
leaving  me  with  heavy  enough  a  heart. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Ercildoune  came  in.  How  he  is 
changed !  I  have  n't  seen  him  before  since  Mrs.  Sur- 
rey died,  and  that  of  itself  was  enough  to  kill  him, 
without  this  dreadful  time  about  Mr.  Robert. 

13  s 


290  IV/iat  Answei'f 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Sallie,"  says  he,  "  how  are 
you?  and  I  'm  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well."  So  I 
told  him  I  was  well,  and  then  he  asked  for  Frankie. 
"  Mrs.  Lee  tells  me,"  he  said,  "  that  your  little  brother 
i';  quite  ill,  and  that  he  needs  country  air  and  exercise. 
He  can  have  them  both  at  The  Oaks  ;  so  if  you  '11  get 
him  ready,  the  carriage  will  come  for  you  at  whatever 
time  you  appoint.  Mrs.  Lee  can  find  you  plenty  of 
work  as  long  as  you  care  to  stay."  He  looked  as 
if  he  wanted  to  say  something  more,  but  did  n't ;  and 
I  was  just  as  sure  as  sure  could  be  that  it  was  some- 
thing about  Miss  Francesca,  probably  about  her  having 
me  out  there  so  much ;  for  his  face  looked  so  sad,  and 
his  lips  trembled  so,  1  knew  that  must  be  in  his  mind. 
And  when  I  thought  of  it,  and  of  such  an  awful  fate 
as  it  was  for  her,  so  young,  and  handsome,  and  happy, 
like  the  great  baby  I  am,  I  just  threw  my  apron  over 
my  head,  and  burst  out  crjdng. 

<'  Don't !  "  he  said,  —  "  don't ! "  in  O,  such  a  voice ! 
It  was  like  a  knife  going  through  me  ;  and  he  went 
quick  out  of  the  room,  and  down  stairs,  without  even 
saying  good  by. 

Well,  w^e  came  out  the  next  day,  —  and  I  have  plen- 
ty to  do,  and  Frankie  is  getting  real  bright  and  strong. 
I  can  see  Mr.  Ercildoune  likes  to  have  us  here,  be- 
cause of  the  connection  with  Miss  Francesca.  She  was 
so  interested  in  us,  and  so  kind  to  us,  and  he  knows 


W/iat  Answer?  291 

I  loved  her  so  very  dearly,  —  and  if  it  's  any  comfort 
to  him  I'm  sure  I'm  glad  to  be  here,  without  taking 
Frankie  into  the  account,  —  for  the  poor  gentleman 
looks  so  bowed  and  heart-broken  that  it  makes  one's 
heart  ache  just  to  see  him.  Mr.  Robert  is  n't  well 
enough  to  be  about  yet,  but  he  sits  up  for  a  while  every 
day,  and  is  getting  on  —  the  doctor  says  —  nicely. 
They  both  talk  about  you  often  ;  and  Mr.  Ercildoune, 
I  can  see,  thinks  everything  of  you  for  that  good,  kind 
deed  of  yours,  when  you  and  ^Mr.  Robert  were  on  the 
transport  together.  Dear  Jim,  he  don't  know  you  as 
well  as  I  do,  or  he  'd  know  that  you  could  n't  help 
doing  such  things,  —  not  if  you  tried. 

I  hope  you'll  like  the  box  that  comes  with  this. 
Mr.  Robert  had  it  packed  for  you  in  his  own  room, 
to  see  that  everything  went  in  that  you  'd  like.  Of 
course,  as  he  's  been  a  soldier  himself,  he  knows  better 
what  they  want  than  anybody  else  can. 

Dear  Jim,  do  take  care  of  yourself;  don't  go  and 
get  wounded  ;  and  don't  get  sick  ;  and,  whatever  you 
do,  don't  let  the  rebels  take  you  prisoner,  unless  you 
want  to  drive  me  frantic.  I  think  about  you  pretty 
much  all  the  time,  and  pray  for  you,  as  well  as  I  know 
how,  every  night  when  I  go  to  bed,  and  am  always 

Your  own  loving 

Sallie. 


292  IV/iat  Aiiszucr? 

"Wow!  "  said  Jim,  as  he  read,  "she  's  in  a  good 
berth  there."  So  she  was, —  and  so  she  stayed. 
Frankie  got  quite  well  once  more,  and  Sallie  began  to 
think  of  going,  but  Mr.  Ercildoune  evidently  clung  to 
her  and  to  the  sunshine  which  the  bright  little  fellow 
cast  through  the  house.  Sallie  was  quite  right  in  her 
supposition.  Francesca  had  cared  for  this  girl,  had 
been  kind  to  her  and  helped  her,  —  and  his  heart 
rrent  out  to  ever}^thing  that  reminded  him  of  his  dear, 
dead  child.  So  it  happened  that  autumn  passed,  and 
winter,  and  spring,  —  and  still  they  stayed.  In  fact, 
she  was  domesticated  in  the  house,  and,  for  the  first 
time  in  years,  enjoyed  the  delightful  sense  of  a  home. 
Here,  then,  she  set  up  her  rest,  and  remained  :  here, 
when  the  "  cruel  war  was  over,"  the  armies  disbanded, 
the  last  regiments  discharged,  and  Jimmy  "  came 
marching  home,"  brown,  handsome,  and  a  captain, 
here  he  found  her,  —  and  from  here  he  married  and 
carried  her  away. 

It  was  a  happy  little  wedding,  though  nobody  was 
there  beside  the  essentials,  save  the  family  and  a  dear 
friend  of  Robert's,  who  was  with  him  at  the  time,  as  he 
had  been  before  and  would  be  often  again,  —  none 
other  than  William  Surrey's  favorite  cousin  and  friend, 
Tom  Russell. 

The  letter  which  Surrey  had  written  never  reached 
his  hand  till  he  lay  almost  dying  from  the  effects  of 


What  Anszver?  293 

wounds  and  exposure,  after  he  had  been  brought  in 
safety  to  our  hnes  by  his  faithful  black  friends,  at  Mor- 
ris Island.  Surrey  had  not  mistaken  his  temper  ;  gay, 
reckless  fellow,  as  he  was,  he  was  a  thorough  gentle- 
man, in  whom  could  harbor  no  small  spite,  nor  petty 
prejudice,  —  and  without  a  mean  fibre  in  his  being. 
At  a  glance  he  took  in  the  whole  situation,  and  insist- 
ing upon  being  propped  up  in  bed,  with  his  own  hand 
—  though  slowly,  and  as  a  work  of  magnitude  —  suc- 
ceeded in  writing  a  cordial  letter  of  congratulation 
and  affection,  that  Avould  have  been  to  Surrey  like  the 
grasp  of  a  brother's  hand  in  a  strange  and  foreign 
country,  had  it  ever  reached  his  touch  and  eyes. 

But  even  while  Tom  lay  writing  his  letter,  occasion- 
ally muttering,  "  They  '11  have  a  devilish  hard  time  of 
it !  "  or  "  Poor  young  un  ! "  or  "  She  's  one  in  a  mil- 
lion ! "  or  some  such  sentence  which  marked  his  feel- 
ing and  care,  —  these  two  of  whom  he  thought,  to 
whose  future  he  looked  with  such  loving  anxiety,  were 
beyond  the  reach  of  human  help  or  hindrance,  —  done 
alike  with  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  time. 

From  a  distance,  with  the  help  of  a  glass,  and  ab- 
sorbing interest,  he  had  followed  the  movements  of 
the  flag  and  its  bearer,  and  had  cheered,  till  he  fainted 
from  weakness  and  exhaustion,  as  he  saw  them  safe  at 
last.  It  was  with  delight  that  he  found  himself  on  the 
^  same  transport  with  Ercildoune,  and  discovered  in  him 


294  JV/mt  Answer? 

the  brother  of  the  young  girl  for  whom,  in  the  past,  he 
had  had  so  pleasing  and  deep  a  regard,  and  whose 
present  and  future  were  so  full  of  interest  for  him,  in 
their  new  and  nearer  relations. 

These  two  young  men,  unlike  as  they  were  in  most 
particulars,  were  drawn  together  by  an  irresistible  at- 
traction. They  had  that  common  bond,  always  felt 
and  recognized  by  those  who  possess  it,  of  the  gentle 
blood,  —  tastes  and  instincts  in  common,  and  a  fine, 
chivalrous  sentiment  which  each  felt  and  thoroughly  ap- 
preciated in  the  other.  The  friendship  thus  begun 
grew  with  the  passing  years,  and  w^as  intensified  a 
hundred  fold  by  a  portion  of  the  past  to  which  they 
rarely  referred,  but  w^hich  lay  always  at  the  bottom  of 
their  hearts.  They  had  each  for  those  two  who  had 
lain  dead  together  in  the  streets  of  New  York  the 
strongest  and  tenderest  love,  —  and  though  it  was  not 
a  tie  about  which  they  could  talk,  it  bound  them  to- 
gether as  with  chains  of  steel. 

Russell  was  with  Ercildoune  at  the  time  of  the  wed- 
ding, and  entered  into  it  heartily,  as  they  all  did.  The 
result  was,  as  has  been  wTitten,  the  gayest  and  merriest 
of  times.  Sallie's  dress,  which  Robert  had  given  her, 
was  a  sight  to  behold  ;  and  the  pretty  jewels,  which 
were  a  part  of  his  gift,  and  the  long  veil,  made  her 
look,  as  Jim  declared,  "  so  handsome  he  did  n't  know 
her," — though   that   must   have   been   one   of  Jim's 


What  Answer?  295 

stories,  or  else  he  was  in  the  habit  of  making  love  to 
strange  ladies  with  extraordinary  ease  and  effrontery. 

The  breakfast  was  another  sight  to  behold.  As 
Mary  the  cook  said  to  Jane  the  housemaid,  "  If  they  'd 
been  born  kings  and  queens,  Mrs.  Lee  could  n't  have 
laid  herself  out  more  ;  it 's  grand,  so  it  is,  — just  you 
go  and  see  "  ;  which  Jane  proceeded  to  do,  and  forth- 
with thereafter  corroborated  Mary's  enthusiastic  state- 
ment. 

There  were  plent}^  of  presents,  too  :  and  when  it  was 
all  over,  and  they  were  in  the  carriage,  to  be  sent  to 
the  station,  Mr.  Ercildoune,  holding  Sallie's  hand  in 
farewell,  left  there  a  bit  of  paper,  "  which  is  for  you," 
he  said.  "  God  protect,  and  keep  you  happy,  my 
child  I  "  Then  they  were  gone,  with  many  kind  adieus 
and  good  wishes  called  and  sent  after  them.  When 
they  were  seated  in  the  cars,  Sallie  looked  at  her  bit  of 
paper,  and  read  on  its  outer  covering,  "  A  wedding- 
gift  to  Sallie  Howard  from  my  dear  daughter  Frances- 
ca,"  and  found  within  the  deed  of  a  beautiful  little 
home.  God  bless  her  !  say  we,  with  Mr.  Ercildoune. 
God  bless  them  both,  and  may  they  live  long  to  enjoy 
it! 

That  afternoon,  as  Tom  and  Robert  were  dri\dng, 
Russell,  noting  the  unwonted  look  of  life  and  activity, 
and  the  gay  flags  flung  to  the  breeze,  demanded  what 
it  all  meant.     "  Why,"  said  he,  "  it  is  like  a  field  day." 


296  UViat  Answer? 

"  It  is  so,"  answered  Robert,  "  or  what  is  the  same  ; 
it  is  election  day." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  so  it  is  ;  and  a  soldier  to  be  elected. 
Have  you  voted  ? " 

"  No !  " 

"  No  ?  Here  's  a  nice  state  of  affairs !  a  fellow 
that  '11  get  his  arm  blown  off  for  a  flag,  but  won't  take 
the  trouble  to  drop  a  scrap  of  paper  for  it.  Come,  I  '11 
drive  you  over." 

"You  forget,  Russell!" 

"Forget?  Nonsense!  This  isn't  i860,  but  1865. 
I  don't  forget ;  I  remember.  It  is  after  the  war  now, 
—  come." 

"  As  you  please,"  said  Robert.  He  knew  the  dis- 
appointment that  awaited  his  friend,  but  he  would  not 
thwart  him  now. 

There  was  a  great  crowd  about  the  polling-office, 
and  they  all  looked  on  with  curious  interest  as  the  two 
young  men  came  up.  No  demonstration  was  made, 
though  a  half-dozen  brutal  fellows  uttered  some  coarse 
remarks. 

"  Hear  the  damned  Rebs  talk  ! "  said  a  man  in  the 
army  blue,  who,  with  keen  eyes,  was  observing  the 
scene.  "  They  're  the  same  sort  of  stuff  we  licked  in 
Carolina." 

"  Ay,"  said  another,  "  but  with  a  difference  ;  blue 
led  there  ;  but  gray  '11  come  off  winner  here,  or  I  'm 
mistaken." 


What  Anszver?  297 

Robert  stood  leaning  upon  his  cane ;  a  support 
which  he  would  need  for  Ufe ;  one  empty  sleeve 
pinned  across  his  breast,  over  the  scar  from  a  deep 
and  yet  unhealed  wound.  The  clear  October  sun 
shone  down  upon  his  form  and  face,  upon  the  broad 
folds  of  the  flag  that  w^aved  in  triumph  above  him, 
upon  a  country  where  wars  and  rumors  of  wars  had 
ceased. 

"  Courage,  man  !  what  ails  you  ?  "  whispered  Rus- 
sell, as  he  felt  his  comrade  tremble  ;  "  it  's  a  ballot  in 
place  of  a  bayonet,  and  all  for  the  same  cause ;  lay  it 
down." 

Robert  put  out  his  hand. 

"Challenge  the  vote!"  "Challenge  the  vote!" 
"  No  niggers  here  !  "  sounded  from  all  sides. 

The  bit  of  paper  which  Ercildoune  had  placed  on 
the  window-ledge  fluttered  to  the  ground  on  the  outer 
side,  and,  looking  at  Tom,  Robert  said  quietly,  "  i860 
or  1865  ?  —  is  the  war  ended  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  answered  Tom,  taking  his  arm,  and  walking 
away.  "  No,  my  friend  !  so  you  and  I  will  continue 
in  the  service." 

"  Not  ended  ;  —  it  is  true  1  how  and  when  will  it 
be  closed  ? " 

"That  is  for  the  loyal  people  of  America  to  de- 
cide," said  Russell,  as  they  turned  their  faces  towards 
home. 

13* 


298  What  Ajiszver? 

How  and  when  will  it  be  closed  ?  a  question  asked 
by  the  living  and  the  dead,  —  to  which  America  must 
respond. 

Among  the  living  is  a  vast  army  :  black  and  white, 
—  shattered,  and  maimed,  and  blind  :  and  these  say, 
"  Here  we  stand,  shattered  and  maimed,  that  the  body 
politic  might  be  perfect !  blind  forever,  that  the  glori- 
ous sun  of  liberty  might  shine  abroad  throughout  the 
land,  for  all  people,  through  all  coming  time." 

And  the  dead  speak  too.  From  their  crowded 
graves  come  voices  of  thrilling  and  persistent  pathos, 
whispering,  "  Finish  the  work  that  has  fallen  from  our 
nerveless  hands.  Let  no  weight  of  tyranny,  nor  taint 
of  oppression,  nor  stain  of  wrong,  cumber  the  soil, 
nor  darken  the  land  we  died  to  save. 


NOTE. 

O  INCE  it  is  impossible  for  anyone  memory  to  carry 
the  entire  record  of  the  war,  it  is  well  to  state, 
that  almost  every  scene  in  this  book  is  copied  from  life, 
and  that  the  incidents  of  battle  and  camp  are  part  of 
the  history  of  the  great  contest. 

The  story  of  Fort  Wagner  is  one  that  needs  no  such 
emphasis,  it  is  too  thoroughly  known  ;  that  of  the  Color- 
Sergeant,  whose  proper  name  is  W.  H.  Carney,  is  taken 
from  a  letter  written  by  General  M.  S.  Littlefield  to  Colo- 
nel A.  G.  Browne,  Secretary  to  Governor  Andrew. 

From  the  New  York  Tribune  and  the  Providence  Jour- 
nal were  taken  the  accounts  of  the  finding  of  Hunt,  the 
coming  of  the  slaves  into  a  South  CaroHna  camp,  and  the 
voluntary  carrying,  by  black  men,  ere  they  were  enHsted, 
of  a  schooner  into  the  fight  at  Newbern,  Than  these  two 
papers,  none  were  considered  more  rehable  and  trustwor- 
thy in  their  war  record. 

Almost  every  paper  in  the  North  published  the  narrative 
of  the  black  man  pushing  off  the  boat,  for  which  an  official 
report  is  responsible.  The  boat  was  a  flat-boat,  with  a 
company  of  soldiers  on  board;  and  the  battery  under 
the  fire  of  which  it  fell  was  at  Rodman's  Point,  North 


300  Note. 

Carolina.  In  drawing  the  outlines  of  this,  as  of  the 
others,  I  have  necessarily  used  a  somewhat  free  pen- 
cil, but  the  main  incident  of  each  has  been  faithfully 
preserved. 

The  disabled  black  soldier  my  own  eyes  saw  thrust  from 
a  car  in  Philadelphia. 

The  portraits  of  Ercildoune  and  his  children  may  seem 
to  some  exaggerated  ;  those  who  have,  as  I,  the  rare 
pleasure  of  knowing  the  originals,  will  say,  "  the  half  has 
not  been  told." 

Every  leading  New  York  paper.  Democratic  and  Re- 
publican, was  gone  over,  ere  the  summary  of  the  Riots  was 
made ;  and  I  think  the  record  will  be  found  historically 
accurate.  The  Anglo-African  gives  the  story  of  poor 
Abram  Franklin  ;  and  the  assault  on  Surrey  has  its  like- 
ness in  the  death  of  Colonel  O'Brien. 

In  a  conversation  between  Surrey  and  Francesca,  allu- 
sion is  made  to  an  act  the  existence  of  which  I  have  fre- 
quently heard  doubted.  I  therefore  copy  here  a  part 
of  the  "  Retaliatory  Act,"  passed  by  the  Rebel  Govern- 
ment at  Richmond,  and  approved  by  its  head,  May  i, 
1863:- 

"  Sec.  4.  Ever}^  Avhite  person,  being  a  commissioned 
officer,  or  acting  as  such,  who,  during  the  present  war, 
shall  command  negroes  or  mulattoes  in  arms  against  the 
Confederate  States,  or  who  shall  arm,  train,  organize,  or 
prepare  negroes  or  mulattoes  for  military  service  against 
the  Confederate  States,  or  who  shall  voluntarily  aid  ne- 
groes or  mulattoes  in  any  military  enterprise,  attack, 
or  conflict  in  such  service,  shall  be  deemed  as  inciting 


Note.  301 

servile  insurrection  ;   and  shall,  if  captured,  be  put  to 
death." 

I  have  written  this  book,  and  send  it  to  the  con- 
sciences and  the  hearts  of  the  American  people.  May- 
God,  for  whose  "  httle  ones  "  I  have  here  spoken,  vivify 
its  words. 


THE     END 


Cambridge  :  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


/  f>  a 


'  >.-/. 


t;ai;;;M' 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
350 


'^v:?' 


j.^', 


i 


,.  ^7-'<•'i*■^• 


'i^':^:^Mi^-<'#i^ffl^i 


■•km  :>f'. 


'f'U"^n®lt'l 


S^-y'TAri, 


'ir'%y' 


1  ■'  r        "^ 


/ 


